


I Will Hold On as Long as You Like

by NurgleTWH



Series: Ghosts That We Knew [2]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: (Very brief), (repeatedly), Amnesia, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Blood and Injury, Body Dysphoria, Canon-Typical Violence, Catastrophic memory loss, Depression, Discussion of Previous Suicidal Thoughts, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Headaches & Migraines, Let Ghost say Fuck, Marijuana, Memory Loss, Multi, Other, Painkillers, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Survivor Guilt, Use of Obscure Measurement Units, Vomiting, emetophobia warning, romantic asexual relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 76,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NurgleTWH/pseuds/NurgleTWH
Summary: Quirrel and Ghost work together to figure out the riddle that is the Infection, the mystery that is Hallownest, and the unknown future they face together.
Relationships: Ogrim | Dung Defender & Quirrel (Hollow Knight), Ogrim | Dung Defender & The Knight (Hollow Knight), Ogrim | Dung Defender/Isma, The Knight & Quirrel (Hollow Knight), The Knight/Quirrel (Hollow Knight)
Series: Ghosts That We Knew [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069895
Comments: 293
Kudos: 95
Collections: DerangedDeceiver's Favorite Fics





	1. Will Our World come Tumbling Down?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirrel and Ghost head for the White Palace, where Quirrel’s brain short-circuits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Welcome to the next work in the series, and thank you all for reading!  
> 

#### Quirrel

* * *

It’s late morning by the time they set out for the White Palace. Traveling across the City of Tears is uneventful in the sense that there is nothing unexpected. There are a couple of skirmishes with sentries, and Ghost tolerates his side-trips with indulgent humor. He remembers some of the City’s layout in one of the areas they pass through, and he manages to tempt Ghost into investigating (looting) a coffee and tea shop in a cul-de-sac by mentioning there was also a candy shop he remembers frequenting.

The shops are in the same building and have been looted previously, but not heavily — there are plenty of choices left in both shops. Ghost has zero interest in coffee _or_ tea and abandons Quirrel to go and ransack the candy store.

Quirrel is disappointed that most of the coffee varietal he recalls preferring is gone, so he takes what is left as well as a small stash from a couple of other selections as well as some teas. He caches the rest of what he wants to reserve in a small desk that sits in a back room. It is unlikely that anyone else will be through and loot, but he might as well grant his choices a small level of protection.

Pausing as he passes near some displays of brewing equipment, he drifts over. He knows he said no more collecting, but… there are some small travel versions. Exquisitely _nice_ kits. The kind he never would have been able to afford, in an existing economy. He _wants_.

Vacillating, he stares and yearns. Guiltily, he gives in to the inevitable and chooses one of the deluxe travel sets, burying the evidence deep into his backpack. He tells himself he is not doing anything wrong since he didn’t take any of the larger home brewing setups, only something that he is going to replace — conveniently ignoring the detail that he can’t remove and leave behind his _current_ travel setup since Ghost is carrying it — and therefore this isn’t hoarding, therefore he isn’t skirting around any promises he made, ergo he shouldn’t feel guilty like this.

Ghost hasn’t returned yet, so he wanders over to the candy store — very deliberately not feeling guilty — and finds them standing in front of a rack full of jars of hard candies. There is evidence that they have been liberally sampling the merchandise, as at least ¼ of the jars are on the floor around them with the lids off. The moisture has gotten to the candy at least a little as they have partially fused together, but the jars had fortunately been mostly sealed. They are holding a shopping bag they had found, but it is empty.

Suppressing his laughter, Quirrel asks, “Are you having troubles?”

Ghost turns around, looking vaguely guilty.

“The goal was to take a selection _with_ us, not eat half the store now.”

They shrug.

The laughter finally breaks free, and he shakes his head. “You are in no position to harass me about my spice habits ever again.” Looking around, he finds the register and its stool and sits down to wait as they go back to their quandary.

When they are still dithering twenty or so minutes later — continuing to pull jars down and sample the contents — he shakes his head and walks over to kneel by them. They look at him, and with a smile he says, “I am going to go see if there are any surviving books to take. Expanding my available selection doesn’t run counter to our anti-hoarding goals, I believe.” Reaching out and touching the side of their face, he chuckles. “Don’t eat it all in your indecision, my dear. I don’t know if you can get ill from sugar overdose, but it also means you won’t have any for later.”

Huffing, they cross their arms and glare. Laughing, he leans in and kisses them. Feeling their hand on his cheek as he begins to move back, he pauses. They step forward and bring their other arm up, pulling him down so they can wrap their arms around his neck in a quick hug. They duck their head sideways and he feels them brush a kiss against his cheek before they step back.

Smiling again, he stands up and wanders towards the back of the store, to see if the office area has anything worth reading.

* * *

He doesn’t find anything of particular interest to him in the office, but discovers that this shop is below a living area and so he wanders up the stairs to poke around.

The main living area has a set of shelves dedicated to rather prosaic reading materials and he selects a couple of books he hasn’t read yet. Moving into the more private areas, he discovers another set of shelves full of books that are far more entertaining. Whoever lived here had a wide range of interests spanning both fiction and non-fiction.

He chooses a few, then discovers the racy romance novels tucked on a shelf around the corner. There are a few he recognizes as ones that he has read or already owns, but he either doesn’t recall or hasn’t read most of them.

He wonders how many he can get away with stashing before Ghost murders him.

Sighing, he recognizes that he is doomed. Pulling the backpack off and tucking the five novels he already selected into it, he covers his eyes and grabs four more at random from the shelf and stuffs them in without looking. Forcing himself to put the backpack on before looking at the shelf again, he selects one and flees the room.

* * *

Quirrel doesn’t notice when Ghost eventually shows up and finds him reading on the couch.

He has completely lost track of time, but it’s been long enough that he’s put a decent dent into the book. The story covers most of his fundamental desires in a book of this type (fanciful, trashy, emotional, over-the-top characterizations, and smut) and it has been quite a while since he has been able to indulge.

He jumps when they touch his knee.

He stares at them for a moment, then slams the book shut and shoves it between the cushions. Ghost looks at the cushion.

“Hi!” he greets them brightly, and they look back over at him. “Are you done then? Shall we go?”

They stare at him without moving for a few moments, then hold up the bag of candy.

“Is there anything left downstairs?” he asks.

They snort, then nod. Stepping forward, they reach towards where he very unsuccessfully hid the book.

“No!” he yelps, shoving his hands over the gap in the cushions.

Ghost crosses their arms and glares. He gets the distinct impression they are laughing at him. He wonders if he can crawl under the cushions and disappear. He has never figured out why he has this fundamental embarrassment about enjoying these novels, but suddenly recalls several incidents of intense teasing by siblings and classmates, which just makes it worse. Giving in to the unavoidable with a groan, he pulls the book back out and hands it over as he curls up and puts his head in his lap so he doesn’t have to watch.

Quirrel listens as they flip through some of the pages, pausing to read every once in a while. He is beginning to wonder if they are torturing him on purpose when they step closer and tap his shoulder.

“It’s pretend, and full of unrealistic expectations and horrible tropes, and in no way reflects reality,” he recites to his lap.

They tap his shoulder again.

He continues to lecture his lap. “They are antithetical to everything I am supposed to believe, based on contrived situations full of multiple examples of abysmal communication skills and blatant misunderstanding.”

More tapping.

Sighing, he sits back up and looks at them.

Ghost is most definitely laughing at him. They tuck the book under their cloak, then pull out the slate.

“It looks interesting. About as realistic as the ones where ships travel to the stars and come back bearing riches.”

Quirrel sighs and nods.

“You can be a very silly bug, you know that?” they write.

Resigned, he says, “So I have been told a multitude of times.”

Putting the slate away, they step forward and crawl up onto the couch next to him and push him upright. Once he is sitting back, they step between his legs and flop forward, head over his shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck, body stretching across his abdomen and chest. He can feel them quaking with laughter. Sighing dejectedly, he wraps his arms around them and accepts their judgment.

* * *

Kneeling on the floor, Quirrel removes the other books he had chosen from his backpack and hands them to Ghost, who stores them without further comment. They hand over their very full bag of candy and he says nothing as he puts it away. He pulls out the brewing kit and hands it over without meeting their eyes, then starts to close up the backpack. As he is tying the flap, they take his hand, and he looks up.

Pulling his hand over against their chest for a moment, they clasp it between both of theirs and bring it up, brushing his knuckles against the edge of their mouth before letting go again.

Signing, they tell him, “You need happy thing, I need happy thing. Us need happy thing. You ok. I not upset; I understand. Please not worry, ok?”

Giving them a wan smile, he says, “You overestimate my impulse control, I fear.”

They shake their head and sign, “Stop. You ok. You understand—” they pause and think a moment, pull the slate out instead. “You have excellent impulse control for the things that matter. This is just stuff, and carrying more \- - - doesn’t impact us. If it did you would choose the important stuff. Right now, the important stuff is the stuff \- - - that brings joy, and your book is candy for your mind: only bad for you if you think it can replace the good ideas. \- - - When I called you silly, it was because you are feeling bad for enjoying yourself. Life sucks; grab your happy. Ok?”

“Grab my happy?” he asks with a rueful snort.

Ghost nods, putting the slate away.

“I think I can manage that,” he says, reaching out and snagging them into a tight hug.

* * *

They had lost more time in the shops than Quirrel had been aware of, much to his chagrin. They avoid further sight-seeing and diversions as they head for the upper platform of the elevator, and then stand there for a while, looking down the dim shaft. Quirrel can’t see them, but he hears at least one flying sentry below.

Ghost is suddenly latched onto his leg. They’ve turned around the other way, facing away from the drop. He can feel them trembling.

They let go as he kneels beside them, only to burrow their face into his chest once he’s down. He wraps his arms around them, but as he places a hand on the back of their head they flinch violently. Dropping his hand, he relaxes his hug until his arms are just barely holding them.

“I’m here,” he says quietly. “Is there anything I can do?”

Shuddering, they briefly press into his chest and then point back the way they came.

“Go back out into the City for now?” he verifies, and they nod but don’t move.

“Do you want me to carry you out there?”

They nod, so he leans over a little further and they grab his neck. Trying to minimize the likelihood of them feeling trapped, he puts one hand under their legs and stands up, then walks back out into the entryway. Glancing around, he decides to go out further where the light is better.

He sits down just inside the arch so they aren’t in the rain, then leans back against the wall and releases them, pulling his legs up so he can drape his arms across his knees and encircle them without touching.

Quirrel waits.

* * *

Ghost relaxes their grip around his neck a few minutes later, sagging. He feels them clench their hands into fists and then they tense up and push away, so he drops his arms.

They take a few steps out into the rain, stand there briefly, and then whirl around and slam their fist into the wall.

“Ghost…”

Tensing up they hit the wall again and then lean their head against it. After a moment, they bring both hands up and lay them flat to either side of their head. There is a pause, then their hands once again clench into fists and they slam them back into the wall as they start heaving silent sobs.

Feeling helpless, Quirrel turns to face them. When they don’t acknowledge his shift, he moves over next to them and leans his head against the wall near theirs. He reaches up lays his hand over their fist and feels them go rigid. They turn their head away, but don’t pull their hand back, so he tucks his thumb in and gently rubs the top of their fist as they cry.

Quirrel waits, heart heavy.

* * *

Ghost stops sobbing after a while, but they don’t look up or move for several long minutes after. Finally, they flatten their hand under his against the wall, sighing deeply. They push away from the wall, dropping their arms; Quirrel shifts his hand to keep ahold of the one he’d been covering. They turn and face him, a picture of dejection.

He tugs on their hand to draw them over, but they shake their head and don’t move.

At a loss, he goes back to waiting.

* * *

Ghost’s hand shifts in his, turning a little and curling around his thumb. There’s a hesitation, then they gently squeeze and let go, pulling out the slate to write, “How do you sign ‘sing’?”

Puzzled, he shows them as they tuck the slate away again.

They shudder and wrap their arms around themself briefly, then sign, “You please sing me?” while staring at his feet.

Now surprised, he says, “Yes, I can do that. Do you have anything particular in mind?”

Shaking their head, they sign, “Thank you,” and stumble forward into his lap, burying their face into his chest, trembling.

Wrapping his arms around them, he kisses their horn and fumbles for a song. When his mind blanks for a more appropriate choice, he defaults to a rather crass tune he often sings while alone. He’s halfway through the second verse before they apparently notice the lyrics with a twitch. After a few more lines, they huff and bring their hands up to his chest and start patting in time to the lyrics as they start shaking, presumably with laughter. Mildly embarrassed, he shakes his head. He leans back against the wall and continues the song.

* * *

Between Ghost and the stone he is sitting on, Quirrel gets chilled quickly. Ghost scrambles back when he starts shivering and hovers, looking worried.

“Can you dig me out a blanket, please? I obviously wasn’t paying appropriate attention,” he says.

They dig one out for him, and he sheds his backpack to wrap up. It’s cold, but once he is bundled up he can feel warmth slowly coming back.

After they just stand there watching him for a while, he asks quietly, “Are you ok now?”

Ghost twists away and walks stiffly back to the entrance.

Forlorn, Quirrel slumps forward and buries his face in his hands. He’s out of his depth and knows it. Beyond one or two rudimentary methods to help someone orient themselves while panicking, he can’t offer anything beyond support and comfort. And if that isn’t what they want right now, he has no clue what to do.

So Quirrel waits again, despondent.

* * *

Eventually, Quirrel hears soft footsteps and drops his hands. Looking up, he meets Ghost’s eyes as they stop in front of him.

They sign, “I sorry I hurt you. Thank you help me fight panic. I upset with me; I not think. I not want upset you, know I bring you sad. Please, I sorry.”

He sits up, then nods and holds his hand out.

Ghost fidgets a bit, looking unsure.

Quietly he adds, “I accept your apology, I forgive you. It’s ok.”

They step forward and grab his hand hard, but don’t move any closer.

He tugs their hand gently, but they shake their head again, looking wretched.

Quirrel sighs and leans back against the wall, drawing the blanket closed but refusing to let go of their hand. After a moment, he stares up at the ceiling and says, “Punishment and self-flagellation very rarely achieve their purported goals. They mostly just leave everyone angry and miserable. If you are determined to make yourself miserable, please do me the favor of sitting over here, beside me, so that my arm doesn’t go numb.”

When they don’t move, he gently pulls on their hand again and doesn’t stop until they do. As they come close, he reaches to put his arm around them, but they start shaking their head and push back a little. He stops but doesn’t let them pull away; they still.

“Do you want me to let go?”

There is an extended pause, then they shake their head minutely.

“Are you worried I’m going to get cold again?”

Ghost nods.

He thinks for a moment, then lets go of their hand to move around. Shoving the backpack against the wall more firmly, he opens it up and pulls out a second blanket. Leaning against the side of the backpack, he wraps the blanket he is wearing over his other shoulder and under the arm next to the backpack. Taking the second blanket and unfolding it halfway, he props it against the backpack with his elbow and drapes it across his chest. Looking over at them, he says, “Let’s try this. If you sit against the backpack, I can lean on it and then you will mostly be against it and not me. Is that ok?”

They sigh, then nod again and walk over to sit.

Turning slightly and folding his leg up against the bag so he can move closer, he drapes his arm by the wall over the backpack and curls around it some, placing his hand on Ghost’s abdomen and pulling them in. It turns out one of their horns is conveniently close, so he turns his head and kisses it, then rests his mask against it gently.

He thinks for a while, as Ghost absent-mindedly traces his fingers and joints where they lay on their lap.

“I know you’ve made it down there before. Did it cause you troubles then?” he finally asks.

Ghost huffs and droops. They shift some so that he can see their hands better, then sign, “Mostly no, mostly small upset.”

“What did you do differently?”

They snort, sign “You not want know.”

“Unless you just took a running leap without looking—”

He stops when they nod.

“Oh gods, _Ghost_!”

Groaning, he leans back and presses his head against the wall. “You’re right, I didn’t want to know.”

Ghost returns to fiddling with his fingers when he doesn’t resume speaking; they seem to find it soothing.

Quirrel thinks for a long while.

* * *

The plan they eventually agreed on is for Ghost to wait here, possibly terrorizing the sentries, while Quirrel makes his way down. Ghost gives him a general overview of what to expect — it sounds like the elevator may have partially collapsed before society utterly failed, because they’d found evidence of partial repair efforts, as well as a multitude of platforms and scaffolding.

With no way to signal once he is at the bottom, Ghost is simply going to wait two hours for him to get down. Based on their description of the descent, it will either be far too much time or nowhere near enough. There will be scaffolding nearly all the way across the shaft approximately halfway down, with only a small area in the middle to get through to the shaft below. Once he is past that, he is to stay to one side or the other to avoid being flattened by Ghost as they plummet by.

Quirrel is not a fan of this plan, but has to admit he can’t come up with a better one.

* * *

Quirrel is struggling against one of the scaffolding platforms that partially collapsed over some inconveniently placed roofing nails when he hears a whispering breeze and turns around just in time to see Ghost.

The brazen little imp has the gall to wave at him as they plunge by.

* * *

Ghost had clung to his backpack while Quirrel made the leap up to the Palace Promenade, and now Quirrel is standing before the White Palace. Quirrel is supposed to be standing before the White Palace. Quirrel is in the proper location to be standing before the White Palace, the location where when he had been standing there previously, he would have been looking at the White Palace.

The location of the White Palace should not be a fascinating mystery. The White Palace is a magnificent example of grand architecture, sprawling across the Palace Grounds in resplendent glory. At no point had he ever been aware that the architecture had included legs or wheels. Therefore, the White Palace is before him, and—

Ghost is tapping his hand. They may have been for a while now, come to think on it.

He looks down at Ghost. They sign, “You ok?”

“Probably not.” He looks back over at the White Palace. “I can’t see the White Palace.”

Ghost is patting his hand again, so he looks back.

“Not here. Not see. Not here, you not see ok,” they sign.

“Are you sure? Maybe it’s invisible. How intriguing! What magic do you suppose was used to accomplish such a feat?” He starts walking towards the entrance gate where a Kingsmould has collapsed. “Do you suppose it is invisible from the inside as well? I wonder how you find where you are going? I cannot see how that could be practical; it must not be invisible from the inside.”

Ghost grabs his hand, hauling him to a stop.

“Yes?”

“I unsure you ok. Please wait?” they sign.

Quirrel stops, and stares at the invisible White Palace. “What do you intend to wait for? I don’t see how waiting will help.”

If everything inside is invisible as well, he isn’t sure how they will be able to find the information they are seeking. Perhaps bringing things out of the White Palace will render them visible? Hopefully things aren’t invisible—

Ghost is pulling on his hand again.

“Please stop, sit here. Please? You scare me, I need you sit, tell me you think. Please? You scare me bad. Please sit?” they sign.

With another glance at the most definitely there invisible White Palace, Quirrel says, “Alright,” and sits down.

Ghost steps in front of him, looks at him for a while and then moves closer and brings their hands up to cup his face behind his mask. Their thumbs slowly stroke his cheekpads.

“It _has_ to be there, Ghost,” he whispers. “We need information, and if I can’t go into the Archives, this is the only other place it would have been kept. _It has to be there_. It does. It just _does_.”

They shake their head, and when he starts trembling they pull him forward and wrap their arms around him, stroking the back of his head under his kerchief. Stunned, mind blank, he puts a hand on their back and stares at nothing.

* * *

The White Palace is gone.

There isn’t any rubble to indicate that it was demolished, just a crater scooped into the ground where it used to be. As if it had been wrapped in a bubble and taken away, dirt and plants and all. Some of the archways and grounds are still present, where they were presumably outside of whatever had happened. Close up, it looks like the palace had been excised with a nail — it was a clean cut, but the edges crumbled where they didn't have the cohesion to stay upright. Standing at the lip of the crater, Quirrel’s mind continues to buzz blankly as Ghost wanders around behind him.

He looks down when Ghost takes his hand and follows them when they tug.

Back in front of the Kingsmould, Ghost pulls out the Dream Nail and then signs, “You see protection?”

Puzzled, he starts to shake his head, but they hold their hand up. “Wait, you tell me you see protection. Maybe you not see.”

“Ok,” he says.

They step to the side a little, and he watches as they swing the Dream Nail at the Kingsmould. A highly intricate seal flares into view, glowing white with soul before fading out of existence.

“I saw it,” he says quietly. “Can you do that again? I want a better look.”

Ghost nods and swings again. Expecting it this time, Quirrel gets a better look at the runes forming the seal. It is exquisitely detailed, the runes nested together beautifully. He glances up at Ghost and nods, and they trip it again. It’s powerful, he can tell that much. There is a vague familiarity to parts of the runework, and he suspects that if he were willing to sit here and watch Ghost do this a number of times that he would be able to recognize parts of what he recalls from the runes used during the binding at the Black Egg Temple within it. He doesn’t know enough about runes and spells for that to be useful, unfortunately, but it is information.

He starts to slowly circle the Kingsmould, and Ghost continues to retrigger the seal every couple of seconds as it fades. As far as he can tell, the runes don’t repeat. Half of them are unavailable for him to view — at least he presumes that is the case. The seal forms a dome over the Kingsmould, but where it hits the ground the runes are cut off, and so he believes that the seal is a sphere rather than a dome. Cutting runes in half is generally an extremely terrible idea, he does know _that_ much.

Back at Ghost’s side, he places his hand on their head and they stop.

“Magic, spells, and runework are not my forte,” he says. “But this is an exceedingly powerful binding of protection. I recognize some of the runes as similar to or the same as those used at the Black Egg Temple, but there are some significant differences as well. Without access to resources for interpretation, I don’t think it is worthwhile to try and transcribe them.”

Quirrel steps closer to the Kingsmould and crouches in front of it, looking at where blackness appears to be oozing out. He reaches forward to touch it, but Ghost stops him. He looks over to them, and they shake their head.

“It’s void, I am certain. Kingsmoulds were—” and he gasps, as a needle of pain shoots across his temple. He rocks back and falls the short distance onto his bottom, dazed.

Ghost is in front of him again, hovering, wringing their hands. He reaches forward and wraps one of his around theirs and says, “No, not much this time. The pain is almost gone already, I’m fine now. I was just going to say that the Kingsmoulds were automatons, constructed of void and bound by soul within a mechanical body. Monomon was absolutely fascinated by them — as well as the Wingsmoulds — but the Pale King told us next to nothing. Monomon would corner one from time to time when we were in the palace, trying to see into it, learn about it.”

Releasing their hands and leaning back, he chuckles. “I remember telling her that if she was so determined to get one of her tentacles lopped off there had to be less treasonous ways to go about it.” Grinning, he says, “She called me a spoilsport and threatened me with grading essays for a week if I didn’t shut up and block the door. Of course, the damn thing wouldn’t attack _her_ unless she harmed it — I had no such protections. It was perfectly content to murder me, and no doubt would have continued to try if Lurien hadn’t walked in on the fracas. I likely owe that bug my life many times over; he was the only person who could consistently talk her down from her schemes.”

Quirrel looks back over at the Kingsmould and shakes his head fondly. “It was far from a unique incident. Lurien often accused me of aiding and abetting. The only saving grace I had was that he was as guilty of aiding and abetting her as I was, just in different areas of criminal activity.”

He laughs and looks back over to Ghost. “Monomon was an extremely reliable person, generally composed, respectful, and wickedly smart. When she was focused on a task, her attention was needle-sharp and organized. However. She became the embodiment of chaos when confronted with small children or alcohol. Children could convince her to do the most outrageous things by simply asking her ‘what happens if…’. She seemed to be absolutely compelled to either show them what would happen, or if she didn’t know, go figure it out with them. She deemed such activities ‘educational’ and I suspect went out of her way to find small children when she was feeling pent up. Or she would go find Lurien. Those shenanigans were precipitated by alcohol, not children. Either way, the end result was generally fire and destruction.”

Sitting forward, he places his hand on the side of their face and leans in to kiss them. They reach up and press his hand against their face, holding it as he sits back. They guide it down by their mouth, then turn a little and kiss his palm before releasing his hand. He smiles at them, then looks back at the Kingsmould.

Turning back to face them, he asks, “Is there something about the void that is leaking from this Kingsmould that is different from what is in you?”

Ghost looks back at the Kingsmould, then signs, “Maybe. I think you not touch now. I touch first, you wait. Ok?”

Quirrel nods, then impulsively rocks forward and kisses them again. They startle, and he grins at them. “Where is the fun in love if you don’t surprise someone with kisses sometimes?”

They huff and shake their head, then sign, “I love you.”

Ghost steps over to the Kingsmould and looks at the blackness oozing out of it. They reach out and hold their hand near it before slowly closing in on it. Hesitating just before they touch it, they poke it with a finger. Quirrel doesn’t see anything happen. Ghost steps back and looks at their finger, then back at the Kingsmould. Reaching forward, they run their hand down one of the black streaks, then try rubbing at it. They come back over to Quirrel and shrug, then pull out the slate.

They write, “It is void. But it is—” and they stop writing to think a moment. They continue, “It has lost its vitality. It’s void, but not living void. Like blood or hemolymph that has dried up or been stored. \- - - I believe it should be safe for you to touch, but use the canteen and rinse your fingers after.”

“Ok.”

Shifting over, he touches where they did. The metal is cold, but that is all. There isn’t a noticeable difference between the clean metal and where the streaks are. Using a clawtip he scrapes at it, making a line through the streak. It’s like scraping semi-fresh paint off — it doesn’t flake apart but forms tiny scrunched up bundles where it folds up as he pushes his claw through. Ghost has stepped up beside him, and when he goes to wipe it off, they capture his hand and pull off the straggling filament, then rub under his claw before releasing it.

“Would you rather I didn’t touch it?” he asks.

They look at the Kingsmould, then sag.

“I can be done, I just wanted to feel it.”

Moving to unstrap the backpack, he stops when Ghost touches his shoulder and moves to dig out the canteen. They hold it and pour some water out so he can rinse off his fingers where he touched the void. Cinching the pack closed, they step around in front of him and take his hand, looking it over and rubbing at his clawtip again.

“Are you able to notice something I can’t?” he asks.

They shake their head and move to drop his hand, but he turns it and takes theirs.

“Just worried?”

Ghost nods.

He pulls them forward into a hug. “I will avoid placing my hands into void other than yours in the future.”

They huff a laugh and hug him tight.

* * *

They take the rest of the afternoon to walk around the remaining grounds and bridges. On the far eastern side of the cavern, Ghost stops and stares intently at the wall. Unsure of what they are seeing, Quirrel looks a little closer. It appears to be filled with fine cracks and fissures, but as he turns to ask them about it they suddenly lash out at the wall with their nail.

“ _Ghost!!_ ” he shouts.

Pausing, they look up at him and then point back at the wall. As he inhales to ask what under the stars they are doing, they shrug and then fire off a blast of soul at the wall.

It crumbles to the ground in a pile of rubble, revealing a dim room beyond.

He briefly looks at the room, and then crosses his arms and glares at them.

Ghost cocks their head a little, puzzled.

“What happened to _communication_ and informing me about your plans!?”

They sag a little, then sign, “Sorry.”

Quirrel sighs, touches their horn and says, “It’s ok. Let’s go see what you have unearthed.”

* * *

It’s a stag station, of sorts. It obviously wasn’t meant for general public transportation, and the room is filled with bolts of silk and other items that appear to be mostly Deepnestian in origin, which is very odd. While a bit musty, the room is overall warmer than the outer cavern had been. Ghost explains to him what the little toll machine would do — giving context to why they were so irked at not having enough Geo in Queen’s Station — and proceeds to be irked at this one as well.

“You are the one who threw perfectly good Geo into a random fountain of the Pale King.”

Ghost turns and glares at him.

“Yes, I am perfectly aware you ended up with a piece of broken something that you said you would explain later. That still doesn’t negate the fact that we now have all of 187 Geo between us and this contraption wants more than that. Regrettably, it does not seem to accept glaring as currency any more than the first one did.”

They huff, then smack the toll machine with their nail for good measure.

“Did that help?”

Turning to face him again, they cross their arms and look him up and down.

“Don’t you _dare_. I fight back.”

Another huff, and they hold their hand out to him. He takes it, and they lead him back over to where he had abandoned the backpack.

* * *

Quirrel is staring at the bolts of fabric again. “Silk is an extremely good insulator; we may be able to do something with all of this. Well, maybe not _all_ of it,” he says as Ghost starts jiggling with a silent giggle. “But it is an excellent thermal resistor, particularly for its weight. We may be able to layer something together that would pack up fairly small but still provide adequate protection for me when I hold you.”

He walks up to one of the bolts, touches it, and then sighs in hedonistic joy. “Ghost, these are so _soft_. They are _glorious_.” He pulls it down and starts unfolding it. “Lovely, simply lovely. Supple and smooth, so soft,” he breathes happily.

Ghost taps his leg, and when he looks at them, they sign, “You need me go, leave you here happy, come back later?”

He dumps the unfolded silk over their head.

* * *

After some shuffling around, they eventually manage to fold some of the silk into a multi-layered pad that fits against Quirrel well enough but doesn't immediately slither apart when he moves. Digging around the storeroom uncovers plenty of thread and other supplies, but no actual needles to sew with. Quirrel figures they can find some back in the City; and if they can’t, they will be able to find something that they can make work. For tonight, they tie the edges together in a lumpy mess that winds around behind Quirrel. It uses far more fabric than needed, but Ghost can pack it up and it will leave extra if the later sewing efforts aren’t immediately successful.

Ghost hands him his other blanket and a pillow, and he fusses around a bit before laying down and draping the silk pad across his chest and belly, making sure that it’s tucked around him and can’t get loose to tangle around Ghost. Satisfied, he smiles and reaches for them. Laughing as they bowl into him, he wraps them in his arms for a tight hug. They put up with it for a few moments, then wriggle up and pat at his mask. They give it a tiny tug but stop when it doesn’t move.

“Here, you do it like this,” he says softly, and shows them how to release it. They look at it a moment, then back at his face.

“It’s usually a lot easier to leave it on when I sleep while traveling, but I certainly don’t need to,” he tells them. “We are fairly isolated here; I can leave it off tonight, if you prefer.”

When they nod, he stretches across them to tuck it under the flap on the backpack, then settles back. Bringing his hand up against their horn, he trails his fingers down the curve until he reaches their head and then cups it gently. They reach up and place their hand in the middle of his face, between his two vestigial antennae, and then trace around the base of one with their thumb.

He swiftly tilts his head and grabs their hand with his mandibles, laughing when they startle back. Their glare is ruined by the laughter he can feel them suppressing. They finally snort and briefly touch his mandibles with their hand, then scoot up and sit. Ghost curls over and he feels them briefly brush his mandibles with their mouth in a soft kiss before they lay back down.

He lifts himself up a little to lean over and kiss their forehead, then their cheek. Laying back down and curling loosely around them, draping his arm across their abdomen and nestling his face against their horn in what is rapidly becoming the comfortable norm, he nibbles another kiss against the base of their horn.

“Goodnight, Ghost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The crass song Quirrel is singing is basically “[No More Fucks to Give](https://youtu.be/TXK03FHVsHk)” by Thomas Benjamin Wild, Esq.


	2. Is This Our Last Embrace?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost confronts an unremembered broken fragment of their past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Measurement: [guz](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guz) ≈1 m (≈1 yd). Chosen because it is used to mean 1 yd in modern times, which gets me close enough to 1 m as an estimated semi-close distance. 1 m/1 yd is one of the few near-congruences of measurement between us weirdos in the US and the rest of the sane world.
> 
> Guz also has the bonus of being nearly the same as “gruz” which tickles me.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Having a geologist as my beta reader certainly offers some perspective on what is and is not a possibility in landscape and cave environments! I have included some links and fascinating possibilities in the the end notes!
> 
>   
> 

#### Quirrel

* * *

They discuss a plan for the day prior to packing up, and ultimately decide to leave their things here. The abandoned stag station is warm, secluded, and seems safe enough to use as a base of operations in their exploration of this area. It will be even better once they acquire some more Geo and figure out if Enric can find the station, but Quirrel is doing his best to show restraint and not hassle Ghost about the topic.

The fact that they had acquired a fragment for a Soul Vessel from the fountain had been an unforeseen boon — Ghost hadn’t known that they would be getting _anything_ from dumping all their money into the fountain. It had been a reckless impulse. Money isn’t a large factor in their lives at the moment, but it is occasionally needed — the toll being the current spectacularly relevant example.

Quirrel sighs and sits back, taking a few deep breaths. Of all the things to be aggravated with at the moment, an impulsive act with ultimately minimal impact — that actually resulted in an impressive prize being gained — seems counter-productive. He recognizes the source of his aggravation isn’t the act of Ghost dumping all their money into the fountain. It’s that they didn’t _ask_ first.

That isn’t quite right either.

They didn’t think about how their choices might impact _him_.

Even that isn’t quite right, and he knows it isn’t fair of him to be aggravated over that fact. When he pulls back and views the whole situation, rather than this little current corner, he is well aware that Ghost has made tremendous strides in learning how to do the whole give-and-take that being with someone requires. There are hundreds of little habits that need shifted, that Quirrel does mostly unconsciously because he’s learned to do them before. And he doesn’t think about most of them, so he can’t have a conversation with Ghost because he doesn’t even realize what all needs to be discussed. From their perspective, chucking all their Geo into a fountain as an impulse was just fine, because the worst that was going to happen was that they’d lose all their Geo. They hadn’t asked Quirrel for the Geo he was carrying, and they wouldn’t get ripped apart, killed, reformed, or any of the other things the two of them have explicitly discussed that they categorically must warn Quirrel about if they want him to retain his sanity.

It is entirely possible he is aggravated about the situation simply because it is better than the existential dread hovering about him from all the other potentialities. Aggravation is certainly easier than terror and trepidation.

Recognizing that what he is facing is a Quirrel problem, he sighs deeply and goes back to emptying out the backpack, sorting out what will need to go back into it for actual exploring.

* * *

Quirrel hears soft footsteps pattering across the room and turns to see Ghost approaching with an armful of supplies. When they reach his side, they start to drop their loot and then pause. They look over his organization and then turn to face him so that he can choose where to put the assorted items.

Ghost found some needles this time. He lifts them up and smiles, and they make a tiny bounce in acknowledgement.

Once their arms are emptied, they pull out a couple of additional items. There are some duplicates of items they have back home, but in this case if they are going to be doing unexpected sewing projects a couple of pairs of scissors make sense. Unless they turn out to be exceptionally good scissors, they will be left behind.

Quirrel turns and picks up a bolt of thicker, sturdier silk he found while they were off scavenging the other areas.

“I think this one should work well for making straps and such, and I have done a small amount of sewing in the past.” He snorts and adds, “Not _good_ sewing, mind you. Still, I do know how to tie knots well enough that we can get by in spite of my sewing.”

He has mostly emptied the backpack, and now the two of them are spending some time modifying it to make their joint use of the Crystal Heart a bit more practical. They add straps and ties that Ghost can use to secure themself but which will release easily, as well as a few others that can be used simply as handles. Taking the modified backpack out to the Palace Grounds they practice starting, stopping, and a few other maneuvers while Ghost uses the ties and handles. With the White Palace gone, they have an exceptionally large open area with few obstacles, unlike when they first tried this out in Fog Canyon.

After Quirrel feels relatively comfortable with stopping and starting such that he stops where he intends to and Ghost manages to stay put, they work out a simplistic method of communicating as he flies along — it is essentially a simple series of pats that mostly work out to “stop soon” and “stop now” as well as “oh shit”.

A few attempts at using it later, they go back to reworking the straps and handles so that Ghost is situated differently. When they had tried to use the pats, it meant that Ghost was no longer holding onto the handles and — especially when they were telling him to “stop now” — they were getting launched over his head.

It takes a few iterations, but by the end of the afternoon they are both comfortable with the setup and their ability to use it. This leaves them a bit at loose ends, since there is time to spare before sleeping but not enough of it to do anything useful. Ghost finally drags him back into the storeroom and bundles him up in the makeshift pad; he thinks they are going to work on finishing it up.

Instead, they pull out one of the books from the store and flip through it briefly before putting it back. They check another one, and then keep the third one out and shove themself into his lap, handing him the book. It isn’t the one they found him reading, but giving it a quick glance he can tell it is _worse_ and yet so much _better_ — if _no one knew he was reading it_. It rapidly becomes very obvious that they want him to read it to them. _Out loud_.

Quirrel is unsuccessful at diverting their attention. Extremely embarrassed, squirming the whole while, he eventually starts reading.

It takes about an hour for him to realize that Ghost is completely enraptured by the story. Relaxing, he is finally able to enjoy himself and the trash he is reading.

* * *

The next morning, they travel to the bench that was marked on the current western edge of Ghost’s map of the Ancient Basin. It is located at the beginning of a long tunnel of spikey cave formations. Quirrel is loath to even try designating them as ‘stalactites’ or ‘stalagmites’ because those terms are far too benign. He didn’t even know geological formations like this could _exist_. He is steadfastly ignoring them in favor of looking over Ghost’s map with them.

The tunnel is the first target for their explorations, and is one of the areas that Ghost hadn’t been able to traverse without the Crystal Heart. It will also be the first time they try out their new setup without knowing what they are getting into. He is starting to wonder if Ghost keeps checking the map due to nerves; up until this point, everything they have done together has been something Ghost has either completed and dealt with or known enough about to feel marginally in control of the situation.

“Ghost,” he says.

They look up at him. He lifts his arm from the back of the bench and places his hand gently on the back of their head, thumb resting on top. Looking into their eyes for a few moments, he starts making small circles on top of their head with his thumb.

Ghost slumps, looking down at their map again and then folding it up.

“ _Ghost_ ,” he says again.

With a small shiver, they tuck the map away. They look up at him, then away.

He sighs and leans over, kisses the tip of their horn. Knowing there is nothing he can say to alleviate their worry, he drops his hand down to their side and pulls them against him, then nuzzles their horn.

Ghost shivers again, then turns and scrambles into his lap, plastering their head against his chest and curling around his abdomen, hiding from the world. Wrapping his arms around them, he tucks his chin against the back of their head and holds them.

* * *

Blasting through the air, glee in his heart at the speed as well as the prospect of going somewhere new, Quirrel almost triggers a stop when a small protrusion crops up in the middle of the tunnel. The wind makes it hard for him to see well, but it looks like it may have been a Geo conglomerate formation. He is still trying to look behind him and see it when Ghost signals “stop now” rapidly and repeatedly. Deactivating the Crystal Heart without even looking at why Ghost was panicking, Quirrel stumbles a little on the unfamiliar ground. He is right in front of a wall, and almost puts his hand up to catch himself when he figures out what the wall _is_. With a yelp, he jumps back.

No wonder Ghost had been panicking.

Ghost drops from his backpack with a small thump, then seizes his hand hard and yanks on it. Startled, he looks down at them.

Angrily they sign, “You not see! You not see front!” They stop and slam their nail into the spiked wall as punctuation. “Not back, front! Not good, see back, you scared me! You not think, see back, big injury! Please not see back, see front. You scared me, upset me! Please think, see we go, not we come. Please!”

Ghost is shaking by the time they finish the well-deserved lecture. Quirrel looks at the wall of spikes. In their experimentation they had determined that Quirrel was granted the same momentary protection from impact damage when slamming into a wall — and hadn’t that been terrifying to figure out how to assess safely — but he is quite sure it doesn’t extend to protection from this abomination of geology.

If Ghost hadn’t been watching, Quirrel would be… gravely injured would have been the _best_ potential outcome.

Quirrel drops to his knees and then sits, still staring at the spikes. An apology is in order yet feels woefully inadequate.

Ghost slams into him, grabbing him around the neck and squeezing. He wraps them in a hug, feels one of their hands scoot up the back of his head under the kerchief to wrap even tighter. They are shuddering, hands randomly scrabbling against him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You’re right, I wasn’t watching where we were going, and I should have been. I apologize, I’m sorry, thank you.”

* * *

They get back to exploring a while later. Quirrel is finding the whole area disconcerting. It is quiet in a way that doesn’t feel quite natural, with a constant nearly sub-sonic hum. The only creatures they have run across so far had been labeled “shadow creepers” by Ghost and look like larger, fully armored versions of crawlids. Once or twice he thinks he’s seen something small and orange skitter away, but when he asks Ghost, they haven’t seen it.

They climb up a rock chimney, and after a final boost by Quirrel they are now standing in a room with the spike-rocks up one side and a couple more rock chimneys above them. There is the sound of a grub echoing around the room, but neither of them can figure out where it is, so Ghost is now scrambling back up onto Quirrel’s backpack in preparation for him to jump up to one of the chimneys. Quirrel freezes as he crouches to spring, seeing a blob of orange suddenly form in the air just below where he had been planning to jump.

He feels Ghost shift when he stops, and then they go absolutely still.

“Ghost… that looks like…”

Quirrel shivers as dread crawls through his shell. He whispers, “That’s Infection.”

The blob just hovers for a few moments, then heads straight for them… no. Heads straight for _Ghost_. They are gone in an instant, jumping up and dashing forward to strike it with their nail. It follows them as they drop, and Quirrel lunges, slamming his nail through it. It makes a wet noise as it pops, and a few orange drops fall to the ground. Ghost jumps to the side, avoiding them neatly. They both stare in horrified shock as the orange soaks into the ground and disappears.

Quirrel drops into a crouch and spins as he hears another faint pop, locating the newly formed balloon overhead. Ghost launches themself at it, casting a Shriek as they arc under it. It changes directions as they pass by, paying no attention to Quirrel as he skewers it on his nail. Ghost notices the lack of attention this time.

They start to sign when they both hear another pop. Ghost stares at Quirrel for a moment, then steps back and watches, arms crossed.

Godsdammit, they weren’t supposed to figure it out. He knows better than to try and hide what he knows is going to happen, and with a fatalistic sigh turns to watch the balloon that has formed behind and slightly above him. He stands ready in case he is wrong, but it floats right by — he could reach out and touch it, can feel the heat radiating off of it, can see through the clear membrane as Infection bubbles and churns. He feels Ghost staring at him, wonders how angry they are going to be. He steps forward as they slash it with their nail, finishing it off with his.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, interrupted by another quiet pop.

Quirrel sighs, then says, “We need to find a different room if we are going to talk.”

Ghost nods, and Quirrel whirls around to impale the balloon, destroying it.

* * *

Back down below the room with the floating Infection, Quirrel sits against a wall and waits for Ghost to say something. For a while they just stare at him, absolutely still.

Pulling out the slate, they write, “How long have you known that happens?”

“Since the first time we walked together through an area with Infected creatures,” he says, resigned.

Cocking their head, they look puzzled and write, “How?”

Sighing deeply, Quirrel answers, “Because I can walk through a room full of the Infected and so long as I stay at least two guz1 away from them, I am left alone.”

Ghost is staring at him again.

He inhales to speak, stops, and exhales without saying anything. He has no idea what to say.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” they ask him.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

They go back to staring at him.

He sags, looks down at his hands where he has them clasped between his crossed legs. Murmurs again, “I don’t know.” Forces himself to look back up and listen.

Ghost shakes their head, pauses, then walks over to him and gently bops him on the head with their slate.

He doesn’t question that he deserved it.

They are writing, and once they are done, they turn the slate so he can read it. “You are supposed to be the advocate of communication, the oracle of openness. I’m demoting you until further notice.”

They huff as they store the slate and shake their head. Stepping forward, they place their hands on his cheeks and then lean their forehead against his mask and stand there, pressing in gently. Bringing his hands up he presses one against the back of their head and rests the other on their back.

* * *

Returning, they are still unable to retrieve the grub. The balloons keep showing up, and so they finally retreat. They are now staring at another rock chimney, this one going down through the floor. It is small, narrow, and lined with more geological nonsense. Quirrel can tell Ghost would have just jumped down the thing and been done with it if he hadn’t been there.

“How would you get back up?” he asks without preamble.

Ghost shrugs, signs “I not know. Go down, know different come back up later.”

He should have known that would be the answer. He pinches his fingers together in the middle of his mask, attempting patience.

When that fails, he kneels down and leans over the hole, trying to see the bottom. He feels Ghost grasp the backpack — presumably to hold him if he slips. He is amused. They have extraordinary strength, but their lack of weight means they will just slide across the floor and plummet down with him. Perhaps they plan on jamming their nail into something if it happens.

Leaning across the hole, he braces his hand on the other side, trying to see. There is some light, and he thinks he can see the ground at the bottom. Ghost is too short to be able to look over the rounded edge far enough or they would have been doing this, as they can see into darkness far better than he can.

Pushing himself back onto his knees, then sitting down, he tells them, “I believe I can see the bottom. The drop is about five times my height, so I could make it back up with both of us. The problem is how narrow it is and the sharp rocks lining the chimney — I would have to manage to go straight up, and with the width of the backpack plus you, there is very little clearance. In theory, we have enough silk to make a rope, but I don’t see it surviving someone trying to climb it while it rubs over the edges of these.” He pauses, then says, “If there is no other way back up, this is ultimately conquerable. Barring any other solution, I can come up alone, get different supplies, and return.”

He waits while they think. Taking the Infection and its progress out of the equation, he is the one on a timer of sorts. Once he runs out of water, he has a few days before dying of dehydration. From what Ghost has told him, they don’t _need_ to eat or drink, and have gone years without doing so. But they do enjoy food, and if they have been hurt it helps them regenerate energy faster. So long as he can get out, there is time to figure out how to get Ghost out.

Ghost steps to the edge again, trying once more to lean over and see down.

“If I lean over and you hold onto the backpack, you might be able to look down from there,” he says.

They nod and walk behind him, scrambling up and then settling. They pat his head once.

Quirrel shifts over and gets back to his hands and knees, then shuffles over the chimney, angling so that Ghost can look over and down. Idly he wonders why this isn’t bothering them the same way the elevator shaft did, even as he realizes this is a vastly different drop and situation. Perhaps he should ask them sometime when they aren’t in the middle of a crisis.

They pat him again, so he shuffles back in order to sit up. They hop down and come around to talk to him.

“I think you yes,” they sign.

Flashing them a smile he says, “Agree,” and shows them the sign.

“Thank you,” they sign. “Your soul ok?”

Quirrel nods. “I’m at full reserves.”

“You first? Me first?” Ghost asks.

“Hmmm. If you go first, you can’t warn me if anything means I shouldn’t follow. If I go first—” he stops as Ghost shakes their head. “No?”

They pull out their lumafly lantern and then flip their cloak over it and back.

“Ah! This is true. How about two flashes for me to follow, three if I should wait?”

Ghost nods.

He asks, “How long should I wait, if that is what you think I should do once you are down there?”

They hold up one hand and splay it out, then lift up their other hand and add another two fingers.

“Four to six hours?”

Another nod.

Quirrel glances at the hole and then back at Ghost. “Do you have any of the books?”

They snort, and after a pause pull one out. It is the one he was reading when they found him on the couch over the candy shop.

Resigned, he reaches out to take it, but they pull it back and tuck it under their arm. He looks up, and they sign, “I love you,” and then step forward and give him a hug.

Chuckling ruefully, he returns the hug with an “I love you, too.”

Ghost stashes the book into the backpack. Quirrel interrupts as they prepare to jump down, saying, “After you are down there and give me the signal, if I am jumping down after you, can you stand to the side a little and hold the light out so I can judge the distance please?”

They nod, wave, and leap.

Quirrel spans the hole again, sees them look up at him briefly before walking off. The fact that their head glows slightly can be useful.

Ghost returns soon, looks up, and then pulls the light out. They wait a moment, then cover it and flash it twice.

He nods and waits for them to step back. He can see the ground and judge the distance better, and in the interest of conserving soul — there is no guarantee of a way to replenish once he is down there — decides to risk the drop. He should be fine; the only issue is going to be the lack of sideways motion from the drop to use for initiating a roll to absorb the momentum. He hesitates, then asks, “I am going to drop without using soul. Which direction has the most room for me to safely roll?”

They step forward and look up at him, then cock their head a little.

“The distance is acceptable, but I need to use physics to dissipate the momentum. I need to roll, preferably about one-and-a-half guz.”

They nod, then look around. Looking back up, they swing the lantern to their right and hold it out.

“Alright. Thank you.”

They nod, then step back out of his way, opposite from the direction they told him to roll. He situates himself, thinks again and says, “I’m going to drop the backpack first so it doesn’t get in my way,” and proceeds to take it off and do exactly that.

Leaning over, he waits until they’ve moved it out of his way, and finally drops down and tumbles across the floor.

* * *

The lower caverns are a warren of little tunnels mixed with constructed pathways. The pathways are like nothing he has seen before. The surfaces are almost glassy black and look alike to his carapace or a millipede’s, with interconnected segments that have been laid out. As if they had formed by moving into place and then just stopped and froze, turning to stone for the convenience of a path. The thought is unsettling, and he stands up.

He looks over to Ghost, who is watching with interest.

Shaking his head, he says, “I have no idea what made these. They look like they were living, and then stopped in place and turned to stone.” He looks down at the ground again and adds, “It’s as if they just paused, and at any moment could decide to come back alive and change the pathways again.”

He looks around the tunnel again. “Up above, there was evidence of Hallownest architecture and structures built around similar floors, and I didn’t consider or look at them that closely. It may be that the Hallownest structures were built atop these, which puts to lie the claim that Hallownest was the first civilization.” Quirrel snorts. “Which was already a lie, because the Moths were here, as well as the Mosskin. Granted, Unn had started fading into rest with the White Lady rising to ascendency when the White Wyrm showed up. I found the whole situation interesting, although there was scant information available.”

Quirrel crosses his arms, brings one hand up and starts tapping his chin as he thinks.

“Interesting. I can recall… I believe I wrote up a report on those initial interactions as part of my undergraduate work. I remember getting sucked into it, spending hours and days tracking down information. It was the first time I actually left the Kingdom, although I didn’t go far. The areas just outside of Hallownest are brutal, as you are well aware. Did you know that the memory effect is true? The caveat is that it only applies to the bugs who were granted sentience by virtue of the Pale King’s aura. As they moved out of that influence, sentience would fade as well as the memories it held. Any bug whose species had attained sentience wasn’t markedly affected, although their memories of the time they spent in Hallownest would fade faster than normal.”

Ghost is watching him, head cocked.

“Ah, sorry. Lecture mode was engaged. You can always ask me to stop, you know.” Quirrel grins wickedly. “You aren’t getting a grade based on whether or not I think you are present and participating.”

They shake their head and sign, “I want hear, not want you stop tell me you know, your memory. Happy, good, I listen. Thank you tell me.”

He snorts and says, “I shall enjoy your appreciation while it lasts,” and smiles. “Your endurance for my rambles won’t be tested today, because that is most of what I recall. My fascination had been snagged by the fact that having Gods co-exist is fairly rare, especially when one suddenly shoves their way in.

“I was never able to determine much about the fate of the Moth tribes beyond that they seemed to fully integrate into Hallownest early on with no issues, and then died out soon after. Whatever happened to them, it happened quickly.”

Quirrel shrugs. “It makes me particularly interested in meeting the Seer, learning what she knows or is willing to share. I wasn’t aware there were any surviving Moths at all, certainly not to the extent that a successful survivor existed at the time the Kingdom fell. The Wastelands are even more brutal for any species with exposed and delicate wings, but immigration isn’t out of the realm of possibilities.”

Ghost nods, then signs, “I agree, I bring you after. Unsure she tell you, not understand want. She help, I not know she want.”

“You don’t know why she is helping you, so you don’t know if she has ulterior motives?” he verifies.

They nod.

“I can understand your caution.” Quirrel glances around and asks, “Shall we continue?”

* * *

The small orange skittering things that Quirrel had thought he had seen earlier start showing up with regularity. Exactly like a Lifeseed in every way except for full of Infection. Quirrel manages to grab one, and immediately drops it again at the burning heat and the way it snaps around in an attempt to bite him. Unlike every other Infected thing, these run away from Ghost. It is surreal, and Quirrel detests it.

When they come across a large pustule of Infection — sitting on the ground and throbbing rhythmically, radiating heat, smelling sickly sweet, small bubbles churning and roiling within — Quirrel is nearly sick. Crouching on the ground facing away from it, he is forcing himself to take deep, even breaths. Ghost is standing by him quietly, facing the awful thing, hand on his shoulder and gently rubbing with their thumb while he gets himself under control. There are pools of Infection as well, as if the ground is so saturated with it that no more can be absorbed.

With a final controlled exhale, Quirrel turns around to face the horror but remains crouching. His eye catches movement beyond, and he sees a mawlurk pulsing with Infection. Trembling, he looks back at the pustule and then Ghost. Stepping back to his side, they put their hand on his shoulder again. Sliding it down and then shoving it under the backpack so they can get closer, they lean against him.

“Have you seen anything like this before?” he whispers.

They nod.

“Gods. _Where?_ ”

They turn their head and shove it against his shoulder with a shudder, standing there for several moments before stepping back and pulling out the slate.

After they write, they hesitate a long time before slowly turning the slate for him to see.

“The Crossroads have been overrun with Infection since I broke the first seal.”

Quirrel stares, mind a blank buzz, refusing to process the implications of what he just read.

Ghost drops the slate and crashes into him, jumping up a little to reach and wrap their arms around his neck like a vice, body trembling.

Snaking his arms around them, one hand tight against the back of their head, he clasps them to him and collapses to sit on the ground and starts rocking, numb.

* * *

They spend hours digging through mawlurks shooting Infection, Infection pooled on the ground, Infection dripping from the ceilings, pustules of Infection, balloons of Infection. The further they go, the more they find, the ever-present little skittering seeds of Infection blindly scurrying away as they travel. He keeps seeing them out of the corners of his vision, dancing away. The air is thick with the smell.

At one point, Ghost finds a key in the corpse of a mawlurk where someone had managed to hide away and die. Quirrel can vaguely imagine the fear and terror that bug must have been feeling, that they felt hiding within a corpse was _better_ than whatever they were facing out here; wishes he couldn’t.

The tunnels finally start twisting up; however, the presence of Infection continues to grow. He can tell his mind is shutting down, disassociating, refusing to deal with what is in front of him.

Stopping a moment, he asks Ghost, “Do you mind if I start singing again? I need the focus; my mind is drifting away from… this.”

Ghost grabs his hand hard, then nods and signs, “Yes, please. Help us, yes, please. Thank you.”

Inhaling with a shudder, profoundly distressed, he sings a different crude song that wholly and completely encompasses how he is feeling. After a few lines, he hears Ghost snort, and they sign, “I agree.”

* * *

Scrambling up the last ledge, they seem to be back on the same level that they started from. The arches and Hallownest architecture are back, and Quirrel dazedly confirms that they have been built on top of the pre-existing pathways. Although its presence is greatly reduced from just below, Infection still pulsates from random pustules around them. As he is looking around, he sees that one of the walls on the pathway is braced flimsily into place with rotting wood. Ghost walks up to it tiredly, and he is unsurprised as they raise their nail.

Hesitating, they turn and look at him and then point at the wall with their nail. He nods, acknowledging what they are telling him, appreciating they remembered even if he had already figured it out this time. Drained, he signs, “Thank you.”

Nodding, they turn back around and destroy the braces. The wall collapses down, and they are looking back down the tunnel where they had started so many hours ago.

He can see the chimney they went down less than 15 guz away from them.

Exhausted, he groans, “Your estimate of four to six hours was a little short but depressingly accurate. _Gods_.”

They sag with a deep sigh, and nod.

Quirrel looks down the hallway behind him, which fades into a pale darkness but appears to open up towards the far end. There are dim shapes that inspire dread, and he shakes his head. Turning back to Ghost he asks, “Can we sit for a little bit and have something to eat and drink? Cuddle? I want…” He turns and briefly glances down the hall where they will likely be going shortly. “I want to hold you, touch you, feel something _alive_ and _healthy_ before plunging back into… more of _that_.”

Ghost wraps their arms around themself and nods, so he unstraps and drops the backpack, crumpling to the ground as Ghost joins him.

* * *

Quirrel and Ghost can see the ruined Vessel in the middle of the room long before they reach the end of the hallway. By whatever quirk of physics, they remained upright after they had died, slumped with their head lolling forward — with half of their head _gone_. Ghost is moving, walking alongside him, but quiet and still in a way that they have never acted around him before. Completely withdrawn into themself. For the first time, he notices the echoes of how the Hollow Knight moved and existed in Ghost. He doesn’t like it one bit.

Standing just back from the archway into the room, they both pause. The architecture continues to be of Hallownest upon whatever the older civilization was, and it finally sinks in that the Hallownest architecture has been executed in black. Quirrel reaches out and rests a hand on one of the pillars. He has never seen stone so black before; even the flooring isn’t as dark. He wonders where it is from, or if it was manufactured somehow. He shivers and drops his hand, turning back to Ghost. They looked around some but have gone back to just staring at the shattered Vessel.

“Shall we?” he asks.

At their small shrug, he quietly asks, “Do you want a few moments alone first? I can wait here, if you wish me to.”

He can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like, to be unknowing of what you are for so long and then to have the first two of your kindred that you physically come across be dead and broken corpses; to have the only one you know is alive locked into a temple, dying.

Ghost doesn’t respond at first, continuing to stare. Convulsing, they turn and grab his leg for a moment, squeezing hard. They nod, and he drops down to give them a tight hug.

“I’m here, love,” he whispers as they grab him again. Turning their head, he feels them nuzzle the back of his neck, and brings his hand up to their head. A brief squeeze, then they shuffle their hands some and duck under his kerchief to kiss the back of his cheek. Returning the squeeze, he tilts his head so they can have a better angle if they wish.

They move in immediately and rapidly push several more kisses along his cheek before turning away and tightening into the hug again.

As they relax back, he brushes his own kisses along under their horn, moving across their cheek and up to their forehead as they move down and away a little.

“I love you,” they sign.

“I love you too, Ghost,” he says, trailing his hand from behind their head forward to cup the side of their head. Bringing their hand up to squeeze his briefly, they sigh and turn around to face their broken kin.

* * *

Ghost slows down as they reach the Vessel’s side, finally coming to a stop a short distance away from them. Hesitating, they start to circle around the body, just looking. Quirrel catches a small movement from the side, and turns to see one of the little Infection seeds scurry out and then scamper away when he looks at it.

When Ghost reaches the far side of the Vessel, Quirrel sees a few more of the seeds skitter out. When he looks at them this time, they freeze, but don’t run away. Puzzled, and a niggling worry starting to grow, he starts to stand. Ghost looks up at him when he moves, and then glances over to see what he is looking at. They go still, then start walking over to the seeds, which continue to stand still and not run.

Quirrel’s worry is growing rapidly now. He moves to enter the room, when the left side of the room erupts, and Infected seeds start scrambling out from cracks and dropping down from the ceiling.

“Ghost!” he shouts, and starts to stride forward when a gate drops down, sealing the room. Shocked, he stares at it, then Ghost. They are staring at the Vessel, and when he looks back, he sees all the little seeds coming together, filling it up, merging, pulsing, scrambling to pack into any empty space they can reach.

Ghost dashes over and starts swinging at the seeds, trying to fend them off. The other side of the room starts spewing the seeds, all with the single-minded goal of filling the shattered Vessel with Infection. Quirrel watches with growing horror as the Vessel starts twitching, reanimating in jerky spasms as the Infected seeds crowd together.

Ghost scrambles away, back towards Quirrel when they realize they aren’t going to be able to keep the seeds from their goal, and they finally notice the gate that has fallen into place. Stumbling to a halt, they stare at it in dismay. Bringing their hands up to sign something, they instead crouch and huddle as an otherworldly _shriek_ fills his mind with terror. He stumbles back a step before regaining his equilibrium, watching as Ghost whirls around and the Vessel attacks.

* * *

Quirrel wants to scream. He has jammed his arm against his mandibles to prevent this possibility; he can only provide a distraction, and the only one of them he could distract would be Ghost. The other Vessel is gone, overflowing with Infection, and has no interest in Quirrel.

Ghost started out well, holding their own, only getting hit once or twice while landing several repeated blows. Then the Infected balloons started showing up, homing in on them and splitting their attention. Quirrel can tell they have been steadily losing ground since — the balloons are giving them no time to heal in the times when there are pauses in the other Vessel’s attacks.

They end up by the gate where he is standing and take half a moment to tell him to go, but he can’t. He knows he _should_ , but he can’t get himself to leave, to stop watching. His heart is breaking. He manages to take a step back from the gate, to be less of an immediate distraction for them, but that is as far as he has managed to retreat.

They have dashed back to this side of the room again but haven’t looked his way in a while. He holds himself still, his mind screaming at him to _do something_ even though he knows this is the most he _can_ do. The other Vessel has paused in the middle of the room. Ghost looks horrible. Panting hard, the sides of their cloak fluttering where their breath is heaving in and out, void drifting up from somewhere — _everywhere_ — they crouch as they attempt to focus and heal, and Quirrel starts the mental countdown to when he knows they will succeed. Seeing one of the balloons pop into existence far enough away that Ghost has a chance, he prays to whatever god may be listening.

If he reached a god with his prayer, his request is answered with rage — the Vessel starts convulsing and the floor erupts with Infection. Mind afloat, Quirrel watches as the pulsing globs gracefully arc up. Just before he reaches the end of his mental countdown, Ghost is slammed from below, and as their body arcs away he sees their cloak shred apart, their head crack down the middle as the inky blackness that is their body rips away into tendrils of void before collapsing back in on itself and disappearing. Nerveless, scream finally tearing free, he collapses to the ground as their head rolls away before stopping, rocking in place for a moment.

The other Vessel finally seems to notice him, turning to face him for a moment but then collapsing where they are, unmoving, still pulsing with Infection. The eruption ceases: the Infection in the air stops flowing upward, no longer propelled, and falls to the floor in pattering squelches.

Shattered, Quirrel looks back at Ghost’s head. As the gate drops, it fragments into hundreds of tiny motes of soul that fade out of existence, and he screams.

  
  


* * *

### Footnotes:

 **1** A guz ≈ 1 meter or 1 yard.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ancient Basin is just one escalating horror after another, piling up to initially culminate with Broken Vessel/Lost Kin, and then later in the horror that is The Abyss. It got to me on a visceral level the first time I went through it, and my goal was to recreate some of that psychological stress here.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I didn’t tag Broken Vessel/Lost Kin because they aren’t here as a character. I didn’t want any false hopes as to what this chapter might be.
> 
> I left the locked room mechanic in for this fight; I won’t always. There is a reason I chose to have it remain in this instance and it is tied into my interpretation that Lost Vessel has far more significance than is ultimately handled within the game. Their location, the music choices, what they guard, the architecture around them, and the fact that defeating them has the same in-game impact for the Crossroads that breaking a seal does. I may or may not wander through what I have sketched out in my notes within this work, but again I have put an outline of it together for my own internal consistency.
> 
> * * *
> 
> There is something cozy about curling up and having someone read to you. I freely admit I have never had someone read me smut, although from Ghost’s perspective it is a fun addition rather than arousing. But yes, they know what they are doing to Quirrel, they just think he needs to get over his embarrassment. They are going for exposure therapy.
> 
> Ghost also thoroughly enjoys the smut novels, they would just skip over the smut and read the rest of it with gusto.
> 
> The song Quirrel is singing is once again one from [Thomas Benjamin Wild, Esq](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCdiqOyAeu__yBOZBt_Op0JQ). This time we have “[Well, This Is Shit](https://youtu.be/cE4lpSFNFUE)” because a song written for Coronavirus Coping seems extremely relevant for Infection Coping. I am a big fan of this artist, in case anyone hasn’t figured that out.
> 
> * * *
> 
> ##### Geological Nonsense
> 
> So, here are some assorted links to various geological nonsense horrible awful terrible rock formations that truly, actually exist and will murder you.
> 
>   * [Selenite](http://www.wordcraft.net/Fluorescent/selenite.jpg)
>   * [Fluorite, Barite, Calcite](http://www.johnbetts-fineminerals.com/jhbnyc/mineralmuseum/picshow.php?id=63400)
>   * [Millerite, an actual metallic natural spikey nonsense hell](http://ekengrenmeowser.blogspot.com/2013/08/nickel-apex-mineral.html)
>   * [Gypsum - desert rose](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desert_rose_\(crystal\))
>   * [Fuck-off huge gypsum crystals in a cave](https://www.geologyin.com/2014/11/the-huge-cave-mines-at-naica-mexico.html)
>   * [Native Copper](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Native_copper)
>     * My beta says: photos never quite do this justice, it looks like such a delicate and brittle crystal structure, but you have to keep in mind that it’s metal and therefore _dense_ and _strong_. My addition is, copper may be a ‘soft’ metal that can’t keep an edge, but that first cut is going to be razor-sharp.
>   * [Aragonite](https://mineralseducationcoalition.org/minerals-database/aragonite/)
>   * [More aragonite](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aragonite)
> 



	3. Fear and Panic in the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost waits, Quirrel frets, the broken past is re-confronted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!  
> 

#### Ghost

* * *

Godsdammit. They are sitting on the bench.

They are sitting on the damn bench, and everything _hurts_.

They are sitting on the damn bench, everything fucking hurts, and _Quirrel isn’t here_.

They are sitting on the gods-be-damned bench, everything fucking hurts, Quirrel isn’t here, and _Quirrel just watched them die_.

Son of a gods-be-damned fucking _wyrm_.

Quirrel just watched them die.

He just watched them die, and they can’t get back to him because he has the Crystal Heart.

They can’t tell him they are here.

Or that they are sorry.

They can’t hold him, comfort him, cry with him.

They can’t tell him how much they love him, that they are back, that they didn’t abandon him.

His scream is going to haunt their dreams for a very long time.

They are cold, miserable, and everything hurts… and they just want Quirrel to be here and hold them until they feel better.

Shivering, they try and force themself to think about how long it might take him to get back here. Part of it will depend on whether or not he uses the Crystal Heart to cover some of the pathways before the long tunnel where it is required. The fastest he could be here — if he gathered himself up and started back immediately, using the Crystal Heart as much as possible — would be 20 minutes.

Unknown variable 1: how long they are actually gone between when they die and when they show up. They know it is less than the one week it was outside of Hallownest, but they also know it isn’t instantaneous. However, they haven’t figured out a way to measure it.

Ghost suddenly sits bolt upright on the bench, then nearly passes out at the white pain from the jolting movement.

 _What if Quirrel has already made it back and **they weren’t here**_.

Knowing that they return quickly is mostly in comparison to the one week. Anything under half a day qualifies, although they are fairly certain it is less than an hour. But _they don’t know_.

If he has been here, would he have left already? They hadn’t talked about it since that first time, so they don’t know what he thinks happens when they die. Would he wait, hoping that they would pop back into existence? Ghost thinks he would, although they don’t know how long he would wait. They are certain it would be at least an hour.

Miserable, they curl up on their side crying, still trying to think.

How long will they have to wait? If Quirrel is an absolute idiot and doesn’t move, he runs out of water and dies in four days. That’s their absolute maximum.

With a sob, they start trying to logically narrow in the time range. Quirrel isn’t an absolute idiot unless he is under extreme duress. The Archives did it to him before, with the unending barrage of memories. They heard his scream as they died; he was under extreme duress. And while he will remain distressed until he sees them again, presumably he will remember what they told him long before he starts to die of dehydration. Once he _does_ remember, he will come back to the bench.

They don’t think it will take him much longer than an hour to get to that point. Frankly, they expect that he will remember to come back to the bench almost immediately. Ghost shivers and curls up tighter. But they are trying to evaluate possibilities, and it is possible that he will be grief-stricken enough to not be thinking straight for a while. So, to be safe, four hours. If he hasn’t thought to come back in four hours, he has likely fallen asleep due to stress and they have no idea how to account for that.

Four hours. That is how long they have to wait here, at this bench. Four hours is 14,400 seconds. The soonest he can be here is now, if it took them twenty minutes to get back. They suspect it is much shorter than that, that they were really only gone for five minutes at most. Which means that the soonest Quirrel can be here is in 900 seconds. Sobbing, wanting Quirrel to be here _now_ , to be holding them, giving them soft kisses, yelling at them for what they have done, they start counting.

* * *

… 352  
… 353  
… 354

Ghost is shivering uncontrollably. They don’t know why; they can’t stop. They try convincing themself to sit up, stand up, walk around the bench.

It doesn’t work.

They count.

… 355  
… 356

* * *

… 878  
… 879  
… 880

Quirrel might show up now, if he calmed enough to remember, if he moved as fast as he could, if he didn’t get hurt, or trapped… if the other Vessel didn’t attack him… if he didn’t try to kill the reanimated Vessel… if… no.

Do not think.

… 881  
… 882

What if he got hurt, what if he fell down the hole and didn’t land right, what if he had a problem with the Crystal Heart and fell into the razor-sharp rocks, what if—

 _Do not think_.

… 883  
… 884  
… 885

* * *

… 1,543  
… 1,544  
… 1,545

What if… _do not_.

… 1,546  
… 1,547

* * *

… 2,889  
… 2,890  
… 2,891

Numbly, Ghost thinks they hear a faint whining hum. They think about moving, sitting up, but it gets no further than it has any of the other times they have considered it in the last 48 minutes and 11 seconds. They aren’t sure they can; they don’t know why not. It’s as if the act of uncurling, sitting up, ceasing the count will break them, break Quirrel, shatter something undefinable. They know that isn’t true, wonder how far past 14,400 they would have to go before they could manage to break free from the feeling.

… 2,892  
… 2,893

They are definitely hearing that very distinct hum echoing down the tunnel, and they start crying again, struggle to sit up but between the crying and the shivering they lack the coordination.

… 2,894  
… 2,895

The hum is almost at the bench. If they don’t sit up, Quirrel might think they have gone and died here. He doesn’t need that. He didn’t need to see it in the first place. They need to sit the fuck up, _now_.

Driven, Ghost manages to get their arms under them and push themself most of the way up just as the hum of the Crystal Heart stops; they hear a clatter when Quirrel drops it to the ground. Gasping, he envelops them in a tight hug, and they pass out as their body screams in pain.

* * *

Coming to, they hear Quirrel muttering a desperate litany of apologies, prayers, and curses. Ghost’s vision starts to clear, and they find themself laying on their back on the bench, Quirrel kneeling beside it, knees underneath. His hands are gripping the ironwork of the backrest, and his arms are trembling with the force of his grip. His head is bowed over them, the top of it pressed firmly against the back of the bench, his mask over their abdomen, almost touching. When they shift their arms, moving to touch him, his whole body lunges towards them again. With a soft keening wail he goes rigid, arms locking even tighter in place to keep himself from grabbing them again.

“ _Ghost_ …”

He turns to look at them, desperate grief in his posture. Their hand is shaking badly as they reach up and touch his mask and then reach behind to splay their hand on his cheek, thumb brushing away tears. He leans into the touch with a gasping sob.

Caressing his cheek for a moment, they trace his cheekpad with their fingertips. With a tiny sigh, they drop their arm and shift to their side to start pushing themself up, pain blossoming up… everywhere. Every-fucking-where hurts. Gods. They are so _cold_ ; how the fuck are they cold?

Ghost makes it to sitting upright. Quirrel sits back to give them room but is still crying, kneeling in front of the bench, one hand on each side of the backrest where he hasn’t released his iron grip. Reaching forward they place their hands on the side of his head and gently pull his face towards them, into their abdomen, until his mask is buried in their chest and they can wrap their arms around his head. Working their hands under his kerchief, they start petting him in gentle strokes, tracing his antennae. With a broken sob he finally lets go of the bench and drops his hands to their sides where his fingers tangle into their cloak with a tight spasm before working loose and wriggling underneath it and behind their back, his arms along their thighs and thumbs mindlessly tracing along their sides.

Exhausted, miserable, in pain, and holding Quirrel, they relax.

* * *

Quirrel bodily hauled them back to their camp and they don’t know whether to be offended or endeared. They were definitely too exhausted to fight him over it, so endeared is probably the better option. He bundles them up in silk and they sigh — he has his thermodynamics backwards. But it is cozy and luxurious, so they don’t dig themself back out. Quirrel has carried in a couple of branches from the remains of a palace garden and is now rummaging around the room, pulling apart shelves or dumping fabric off of spools in order to get together wood or other burnable stuff for a fire.

Ghost had started to tell him that it wouldn’t work — that they can’t really be warmed up by the application of warm things — when they realize that they don’t actually know that for sure. They have previously only half-assed any personal attempts at it. Holding warm things certainly _feels_ wonderful. Being wrapped in warm things feels divine. Quirrel holding them is wonderfully divine, they wish he were doing it now. Even bundled apart as they have to be, the emotional heat is lovely and he almost always kisses them, adding blooms of warmth.

Love is mushy. They had certainly gotten that impression before, watching bugs go through it in various stages. Listening to the friends surrounding a newly in-love set of bugs complain about said in-love bugs was usually worth some minor eavesdropping efforts for the entertainment. Sitting and blearily watching Quirrel fuss, the complaining makes more sense. Contemplating cuddling, kissing, sitting together, listening to him talk, seeing him, touching him, and so on has taken over a rather impressive portion of their thoughts. Had there been anyone they could or would talk to about it, they are quite certain that someone would be griping to their friends about Ghost.

How does attraction work? Ghost has wondered about it before. They know they don’t really feel it, not the way they have heard it described at any rate. Attraction is clearly complex, inter-species attraction even more so. Deep interspecies friendships and lifelong associations are common, but setting up and living with someone, being in the kind of intimate relationship that is meant when someone says ‘my partner’ — with or without sex — is not.

Quirrel is returning with another armful of fuel. How much fire does Quirrel think they need? Perhaps he _has_ considered the thermodynamics a little and has decided that in the face of the unknown, fire is the best solution. Hopefully, he remembers that he needs to breathe air. The cavern is large, but so is his growing pile of burnable materials. They meet his eyes, then look over at the heap he is building and meet his eyes again.

Shaking his head, he drops the current armful and then starts organizing it into the stockpile.

“Most of this isn’t for your sake,” he says quietly, “but for mine. Once I am holding you, I have no intention of letting go until I absolutely have to.”

Completing the sorting, he comes over and squats in front of them, fiddles with the silk he wrapped around them. He starts to unwrap them, saying, “This is backwards, isn’t it. Wrapping you up will just make you colder—” and stops when they grab the edge he just tried to take away.

Watching them shiver for a moment, he sighs. “You are merely proving my point. The room is warmer than you are, and you don’t generate heat; you’ll warm up faster without the blanket.”

Tightening their grip on the silk, they pull it in. If they can’t be wrapped in Quirrel, the silk is soft. It makes them think of him, his delight in the texture of it, the bliss he exudes when surrounded by it. They will survive just fine until he finishes fretting about. Suddenly wracked by a deep shiver, they suppose they may have to reconsider that. But not yet, dammit.

“Stubborn.” Extending his hand, he presses it against the top of one of their horns, drawing his hand down until he is resting it against the side of their head. “I can _feel_ that you are noticeably colder than normal, love. Bugs with hypothermia don’t think rationally, and I know you aren’t a bug, but I don’t have anything else to work from. Let me at least reduce this to just one layer of silk, please?”

 _Fine_.

If he _must_.

…maybe he’ll kiss them.

Ghost nods.

He does several times as he rearranges the silk, so it is worth it.

Gods, they really are mushy.

Quirrel stands up and says, “I am going to go get some water from one of the springs that fed what used to be the palace gardens.”

They nod, and he touches their horn briefly before walking off.

Absentmindedly they wonder why Quirrel is attracted to them. They are confident he unequivocally is, likely with exclamation points. There are a wide variety of ways he looks at them: fondly, exasperatedly, lovingly, tiredly, with frustration, with delight, and with desire. He generally tries to mask the lustful looks, to varying degrees of success. If he is successful, they obviously wouldn’t know, so there may be more of those than they realize.

But what is it about them that floats his boat? He certainly likes their horns. However, pillbugs don’t have horns, or anything remotely similar. Horns are an issue if you need to roll up into a ball. So why would he be attracted to their horns?

Technically, they are assuming that he is, but they don’t actually know. Said assumption is based on his tendency to focus on their horns when he is aroused, but it would make just as much sense for him to be avoiding touching their body when he is in that mood out of respect for their wishes or a desire not to compound his predicament.

Regardless, Quirrel is attracted to Ghost. When he is aroused, seeing them makes him more so; kissing them arouses him. Whatever it is, something about _them_ causes that reaction in _him_.

The reverse isn’t true, and it mildly troubles them. His absolute acceptance of the fact that they aren’t attracted to him tied together with the fact that it doesn’t bother him in the least is reassuring, if confusing. They do get aroused, but they have never figured out a pattern. It just… _happens_. Looking at other bugs, thinking about other bugs doesn’t do it. Out of curiosity they have tried touching themself when not aroused to see if they get that way, and they do. So, whenever they get around to having sex, it should work just fine. Quirrel is more than creative enough to handle the anatomical issues.

The sound of sloshing heralds Quirrel’s return. Dragging themself back from their scattered musing, they turn to see he has filled two buckets and is headed their way. He sets them down nearby, steps over to brush their horn with his hand, then walks over to the edge of the stagway and starts collecting rubble from where the edges have collapsed in places. Bringing it over, he starts laying it out in a medium-sized fire circle before going and fetching more.

Once he has the circle built, he looks at the pile of fire fuel. He must decide he has what he needs, because he finally starts arranging it in the fire ring and then lights it. After watching it for a few moments to make sure it takes, he starts setting up the small cooking tripod he carries. Securing it in place, he sets it over the growing fire and turns to them.

“Neither of us are in any shape to navigate that tunnel and go cope with that extremely angry portion of yourself you call your shade,” he says.

Ah, it isn’t just pissy at _them_ then. Ghost huddles into themself a little. Hopefully, it didn’t hurt him.

Quirrel reaches out and brushes their horn again. “I left it be when I figured out it wasn’t a peaceful kind of phantom. I admit I was surprised it didn’t show up where…” He pauses, drops his hand, and doesn’t continue.

They have no clue why their shade shows up where it does. Until he said what he did, they had always just assumed it wandered to wherever it was they found it if it wasn’t where they had died. They try and shrug, but it gets interrupted by another wracking shiver.

Inhaling sharply, he squats in front of them. “Would getting it back help you warm up?”

Ghost shakes their head.

“Is there something that getting it back _now_ versus _later_ would help with?”

They doubt anything will show up in this room that they will need to fight, and Quirrel can most likely handle what might show up. If they don’t need to fight, the fact that they can’t store as much soul and their stamina is shit won’t matter, so they shake their head again.

“ _Good_. That is now a problem for later.” He turns to the backpack and starts rummaging, pulls out the bag of candy as well as other food items. Turning back, he sets the candy beside them and asks, “Besides the candy, is there anything you would prefer to eat?”

They think his crawlid soup is spectacular, but they don’t know the signs and are pretty sure their handwriting would be illegible at the moment. They also don’t know if he brought the right ingredients. They nod, then sign, “Not know sign. I write bad now, you not understand. I ok with—” and then gesture vaguely at what he has pulled out. They figure their hands are shaking enough for him to figure out why writing is useless.

He looks at them for a moment, then pulls out the medium pot and stands up to put water from one of the buckets into it. He settles it onto the cooking rack and says, “I know you like some of the soups I have made.” Glancing back, he sees they haven’t taken any of the candy, and gives them a concerned look.

His concern is likely valid, but the thought of eating pure sugar at the moment makes them queasy. “I think eat, I think sick. I not eat.”

Quirrel makes a small, distressed noise that he cuts off, goes back to the food, and selects some ingredients to throw in the pot. His hands are shaking.

In their misery, they hadn’t noticed that he is barely holding on to his composure, forcing himself to get everything together before breaking down again.

He pulls out a second smaller pot and fills it as well, bringing the bucket back over to the fire where they are sitting. He pokes the first pot over some and places the second on the rack as well.

The fire is burning well now. Ghost scootches themself closer, taking care with the silk, and waits for Quirrel to decide the food is ready.

* * *

Quirrel’s composure is definitely fraying by the time the soup is done. Without something to _do_ he started fidgeting, finally sitting next to them and grabbing their hand. They understand; they aren’t sure they would let him get back up either. They are desperate for the comfort, but waiting is better than ripping it back away right after sitting down, all for the sake of some soup.

He had brewed some tea with the smaller pot. They normally don’t like tea without far more sugar than is considered polite, but right now they want warm far more than they care about taste. They wrap their hands around it and sigh, tucking it against themself and huddling. It’s lovely and they know it won’t last very long. Their response wrings another distressed sound out of Quirrel, and he puts his hand on their back.

A minute or two later, and he tugs at the cup he gave them. It isn’t very warm now, but they don’t want to give it up.

“Hush, love, I’m just trading you is all. Mine is still too hot for me to drink, yours isn’t even steaming.”

Ghost relinquishes their cup, huddles around the new one. Holding the cool cup of tea, Quirrel shakes his head but doesn’t say anything, downing it rapidly and setting the cup aside to stir the soup. He adds a dash of salt and then puts some of the soup into the cup he just put down. Moving back over, he trades cups with them again; this time he gets to drink reasonably warm tea.

“I am hoping that you meant that the idea of eating the candy was what made you feel ill, not just eating in general,” he says quietly.

They nod.

He touches the side of their face, then leans forward and kisses their forehead. Another small noise, and his hand is behind the back of their head and he is pressing his mask against their forehead hard, breathing uneven. Releasing them with a small spasm, he turns back to the soup and puts some into a bowl and trades them once again.

The bowl definitely provides a much more satisfactory lump of warmth against their chest, and as they shiver around it, they watch Quirrel drink the cup of soup. He puts more soup into the cup, then reaches for their bowl. They look at it, then back at him.

“Eat some of it, then trade me. I’ll put it back into the pot to reheat. I know I can’t warm you myself, but maybe we can get you feeling better with food, and perhaps at least a little warmer by cycling the food around.”

It seems reasonable, but they would far rather he just hold them.

They look at the rapidly cooling soup, recognizing that they do need to eat so they stop hurting. Eating it will help warm them up the same as holding it does — in theory. Shivering, they cup the bowl in their hands and drink part of it before handing it over. Eating is different than storing stuff; it goes somewhere else. Storing warm things doesn’t let them feel the warmth, but when they eat warm things, they can still feel the heat until it cools completely.

They curl around the cup as he dumps the soup back into the pot. He’s careful, putting it in one side and refilling their bowl from the other in an attempt to hand them the warmest soup he can, trading them again.

Huddling over the bowl of soup, they are mildly surprised to discover it might be working. He’s watching them closely, and after a minute or two drinks about half of the cup of soup before putting the rest of it back into the pot and filling it back up.

Quirrel forces them through the routine another time, at which point there isn’t enough soup to reasonably continue. He pulls the pot off of the fire and sets it by the ring, then adds more fuel into the flames. Dipping the smaller pot into a bucket and filling it up most of the way, he sets it by the side of the fire to warm up without needing to monitor it.

Shuddering, he looks around at where he has laid things out and stands up. Grabbing the lopsided mess of a pad, he shoves the pillows over to where Ghost is sitting and drops the pad on the ground to grab the blankets. When he sits behind them, they can hear his gasping sobs as he wraps himself up and tucks the pad into place. As they move to get closer, he grabs them gently and folds himself around them, enveloping them. They turn to face him, shoving their face into his padded chest, and he tucks his head between their horns and collapses sideways onto the pillows, sobbing.

* * *

Ghost succumbs to their exhaustion at some point. Quirrel had still been weeping, but it was the quiet kind and he had been whispering loving things and caressing them. Waking up, it is obvious he has been up and around at some point. They don’t know how long they were asleep, but the fire is still burning, and the stockpile is definitely smaller. Quirrel appears to be asleep as well, although instead of safely spaced away from them, he has doubled the pad over and is holding them tight, curled around them. They can’t see behind him without moving, but it looks like he may have mounded a bunch of the silk up behind him for warmth.

Deciding to take stock of themself before moving again and waking him, they try and sort out how they are feeling. The lack of their shade is noticeable, and they must be feeling better if that is the first thing they notice. The pain has dulled to a deep ache instead of an incipient blaze and feels like it is a part of the tiredness. They still need more sleep, but now that they have woken up it will be a while before they can get back to sleep.

Turning their head to look at Quirrel, they must have moved more than they did glancing at the fire before. He wakes up with a tiny startle, reflexively pulling them in. After a moment he relaxes his grip, shifting back so he can look at them. Seeing them awake, he moves again, scooting down so that his face is even with theirs.

“Ghost… I…” he whispers, falling silent briefly before his hand comes up to the side of their head and he pulls them in as he props himself up to lean over and starts kissing them. Their forehead, cheeks, chin, temple, the side of their face — everywhere. The kisses start out gentle, feather-soft, but become firmer and more desperate as he goes, and his antennae start brushing around their head, tapping along their horns.

Ghost brings their hand up against his for a moment, then places it against his cheek, feeling his mandibles move as he kisses them. He hums softly when their hand touches his cheek, antennae pattering across their cheeks, and he moves down and kisses along the side of their chin before pausing at the front.

They’ve read about this, long before Quirrel and his books. Long before Quirrel and learning that kissing feels very different from what they had decided it would feel like based on reading. Long ago, they decided that bugs had to be absolutely bonkers to do this. Reading about it, they had decided it sounded invasive, awkward, and unsanitary.

As Quirrel tilts his head the fraction needed to meet their eyes, they still think that it is probably unsanitary, but concede that they were wrong about the rest. Trusting Quirrel to know his limits, they pull him in and bump the front of his mandibles with their mouth, opening it slightly and hoping he will give them guidance.

Humming quietly, he draws his hand forward and down, resting his thumb along the side of their jaw and stroking it. Whispering their name, he leans in and rests his outer mandibles along the bottom of their jaw, touch delicate as he spreads them wide enough to tenderly grasp it. Tracing their chin with his thumb, antennae tapping the top of their head, he dips his hand back until his fingers are loosely wrapped around the base of their horn. Using his outer mandibles, he pulls on their jaw carefully to open their mouth a little further. He feels their teeth softly with his inner mandibles, testing their sharpness before making a soft groan and leaning in, touching them with his tongue.

Pausing briefly, he rubs their horn a little with his thumb, then taps it a few times. Momentarily confused, Ghost figures out what he wants when Quirrel once again flickers his tongue against their teeth. Tentatively they touch his tongue with theirs; it is startlingly warm and wet, and they pull back a little. Quirrel seems to have had a similar reaction, and he chuckles quietly before resuming his quest, Ghost following his lead.

* * *

Ghost decides that Quirrel is likely a very good kisser. They obviously don’t have a second point of reference, but it only occasionally felt weird or awkward and they are pretty damn sure that isn’t normal for first kisses like that. He had withdrawn after a few minutes with a contented sigh, rolling onto his back and pulling them along with him. They are still lying that way, one of his hands on the back of their head, the other rubbing their back. They were right about the pile of silk he had stacked behind him, and he is now half buried in it.

Shuffling around, they manage to get themself sitting upright on his belly. It isn’t as simple as they had expected — the layers of silk in the pad skitter every which way on his nicely rounded belly, Quirrel rocks some as they move, and at some point he started giggling, which added in more rocking as well as bouncing.

Once they make it vertical, Quirrel rolls partway up and props himself on his elbows. It adds quite a bit of stability, the ass. They cross their arms and glare down at him. He grins at them and rocks forward and then back, his abdomen tensing up and shifting the silk, sending them slipping down onto his chest again. They throw their arms out to try and keep their balance, then cross them again once they have settled.

Laying a hand along their thigh and softly massaging it, he asks, “How are you feeling?”

Ghost wobbles their hand; it captures things well enough.

He sighs, grips their leg a little. They feel his belly tense up again and he rolls forward. His hand slides up their leg and then around their back where his other joins it and he lifts them up and places them back atop his belly, bringing his legs up for them to lean back against. Resting his forehead against theirs he wraps his arms around them and his legs. Ghost rests their hands on the sides of his head, rubbing gently. Sagging with a sigh, Quirrel brushes a kiss on their forehead and then leans back on his hands.

Ghost signs, “I sorry, I—”

Quirrel starts shaking his head and says, “Don’t, Ghost. Please, stop.”

At a loss, they stop and look down at him.

Speaking quietly, he says, “Love, if you start apologizing for doing the things you need to do, it will become the only thing we ever talk about.” He shifts slightly to bring a hand up and rub their horn, then trails it along their jaw before placing it back behind him again. “I can think of far better things I would rather do with that time.”

He hesitates, then continues, “I know you don’t want to hurt me. I know that telling you not to apologize is not a solution — there is healing to be had in saying the words, I know you need to say them. I know I need to hear them when you hurt me accidentally, to keep away the bitterness.”

Groaning, he collapses back, dropping off of his arms and covering his face with his hands. “And that leaves us back where we were. _Gods_ , I don’t know what to _do_.”

They don’t either, not really. Pulling the slate out, they write, “We keep going. I listen to you, you listen to me, no hiding, not even little things. No hiding what hurts.” They reach to tap his side, but he sits up when he hears the writing stop. When he meets their eyes again, they turn the slate back and write again, “I’m not sure there is much else we can do.”

Meeting their eyes again he sighs. “No, probably not.” Gently, he takes the slate and sets it aside. Humming briefly before grinning widely he says, “How about we go back to the kissing then?”

Ghost thinks that is a _fantastic_ idea.

* * *

Quirrel isn’t ready for them to go back yet, they know this. They doubt he will ever truly be ready. He has chosen to go with them to where the Vessel is, rather than waiting at the bench. He is stuck with two shitty choices — three if you count simply waiting at camp until they are done, but they knew better than to suggest it — and they suspect the dread of sitting somewhere and not knowing what is going on at all until they pop back into being is worse after having seen them die.

Ghost had expected him to argue with them more about staying out of the fight, but it turns out that watching the Infection flow out of the floor without any discernable pattern did the convincing for them. Unlike Ghost, once Quirrel is injured his fighting ability will be significantly reduced. In a fight between two Vessels, where neither are truly weakened until the end, he knows he has to stay out of it. They know he isn’t happy about it and so leave the topic alone once it is sorted.

Repacking the backpack, the candy is left behind. Whatever it was about that fight that had been so draining meant that Ghost needed food with a bit of substance, not sugar. The process was nowhere near instantaneous but being able to eat something before going back into a fight was helpful. Ghost has a vague suspicion that it is the number of times they healed themself that was the root cause of the drain. It is a pattern they have started to pick up on from other encounters as well.

Quirrel shoves the pad they’ve made as well as some extra silk into the backpack, and Ghost is grateful. They have been avoiding thinking about whom they are fighting, but know that once it is over, they are likely going to have a breakdown of their own. He’s been dancing around saying they’ve died, but after making a vague half-spoken non-reference to the Vessel, he hasn’t mentioned them again at all. He knows, and they are thankful he is letting it lie. They gather up a nice little stack of the wood to make a fire if needed, and Quirrel silently hands them some kindling they missed.

* * *

They leave a bundle of food at the bench, to give them the travel time back to the room for digestion or whatever the fuck it is they do.

* * *

Standing in the hallway outside of the room where they had fought the Vessel, Quirrel is tense, but so is Ghost. He hadn’t really been watching the fight with an eye for offering suggestions on a next attempt, but mentioned that the Vessel seemed to be doing their best to keep Ghost at mid-range, rather than close or far, indicating that there was some strategy to what they were doing.

He hadn’t continued the thought. Hadn’t pointed out that it meant there was a mind somewhere, driving that strategy. Standing in the archway, looking at the broken Vessel, Ghost numbly hopes that whatever mind is left is unaware, the strategy mostly habits from a life left far behind.

Quirrel brushes their back; his hand is shaking. He hadn’t said much about their fight with their shade, but it had obviously distressed him as well.

He is sitting against the wall, where he can see into the room but back far enough that Ghost won’t worry about him. He is going to try and watch, and if they fail again, they can hopefully discuss techniques. It turns out he had taught fighting, nail arts, and had been part of both the City and Palace guards. He didn’t remember much about his time with either at the moment but knew that he had been involved in training others.

Holding his hand out to them, he beckons silently. They grab onto it like the lifeline it is, and he pulls them into a rough hug. Whispers that he loves them, that he is here for them, that he loves them. They cling to him, absorbing the words for the lifeline that _they_ are.

Stepping back, they check one last time to verify they have the Crystal Heart, showing it to Quirrel at his request. Another kiss, then they turn and enter the room.

* * *

It did go better, the second time. They still failed, but they had actively tried to heal less and use spells more in an attempt to not feel like utter shit when they came back. Sitting on the bench they judge that it was moderately successful, so there may be something to the concept that being injured drains something deeper within them that needs replenished beyond just healing.

Quirrel is a mess when they get back, but both of them had expected that and so they just cling to each other for a while. When he is ready to talk about what he saw, his observations are excellent. They show him the Defender’s Crest, explaining what it does and then putting it on. He goes ramrod straight at the odor — it seems to be something he remembers but can’t quite place. They are reluctant to say anything, because having him succumb to a migraine _now_ would be terrible timing, but he seems to be of the same mind because he shakes his head and asks them not to say anything about where they got it. He does think it would be an excellent choice for this battle.

Pinning the charms back into place, they take a few moments to hold onto each other before Ghost heads back into the room again.

* * *

They’re successful the third time, although it’s very close. Gasping, staring at the collapsed Vessel, Ghost almost misses when the Vessel reaches out to them, grasping. They dash over and manage to just catch their hand as it collapses, holding it. As Ghost watches, the last of the void fades from the Vessel’s eyes and they feel a slight squeeze on their hand. Then the Vessel is gone.

Numbly, Ghost stares into their vacant eyes until Quirrel sits down behind them. They turn to him and then point, hand shaking, and he nods.

“I saw,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.” His hand is on their cheek, rubbing softly. Tears fall from under his mask; he’s crying too. He’s crying the tears they wish they could. “Oh, love, I’m so sorry, I saw them reach for you, I saw…” and they are glad he did because it happened so _fast_. Seeing that Quirrel is bundled up, they lunge into his lap and lose themself into their grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a bad habit of not drinking enough liquid, to the point where I have recently tripped symptoms of severe dehydration. I am doing my damnedest to be better (ugh; and yes, I know that it doesn’t have to be water) but my working premise with Ghost is that instead of hypovolemic (low blood volume) they are hypovoidemic, which throws in symptoms of low blood sugar for shits and giggles, aka I am mean.
> 
> Unlike hypovolemia and hypoglycemia, Ghost can recover just by waiting, but food helps by providing something that can be converted into void. With a side benefit of no waste byproduct.


	4. I Want to be Free from Desolation and Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost contemplates the horrible ordeal of having a purpose for existing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Speculation about _Suicidal Ideation_. Discussion of _Death_. _Marijuana Use_ as part of using _Painkillers_. One non-detailed instance of _Vomiting_ and subsequent _Barf Cleanup_.
> 
>   
> 

#### Ghost

* * *

Ghost feels numb.

Quirrel had quietly suggested they needed to eat, rest, maybe sleep, and Ghost had agreed but hadn’t been able to drag themself away yet. He had then suggested he could set up a fire and cook something for them to eat back in the hallway where he had been waiting. He had held them for a while longer, and was now preparing something with the wood they had given him.

Sitting next to the ruined mess of their kin, they stare blankly at the Vessel’s shattered head.

Empty.

This Vessel is empty, scoured out, lost, abandoned. They had died forgotten in an abandoned room of a rotten kingdom.

Ghost had killed them.

No. Ghost had killed what was left after something else had… had what? Had almost killed them?

Ghost traces the fragmented edge of the Vessel’s broken shell. They had reached for Ghost, and for a moment they had touched. For a moment, Ghost had looked into eyes like their own, held a hand that felt like theirs. For a moment, something familiar had whispered within their memories, then slipped away. Buried again under time, locked away.

What are they; what is a Vessel? Quirrel hasn’t told them much, _can’t_ tell them much. He said they were made, fashioned somehow. They aren’t sure how that is much different from the typical way of things; bugs refer to it as “making hatchlings” when they go about reproduction, after all.

Manufactured or hatched, how they think, what they feel, the essence of who they are doesn’t seem all that different from any other sentient bug. They are good at math and certain sciences, not so good at biology and the ethnoentomology that Quirrel so dearly loves. That’s normal too.

Why are Vessels all so different? This Vessel doesn’t look like the Hollow Knight’s memorial. Ghost’s horns are closer, but still not a match. The Vessel they found in Greenpath had different horns still. However, the bodies of the two Vessels that Ghost has encountered both had “cloaks” like theirs, grown and plant-like.

The Vessel in Greenpath had had spellwork imbued within their cloak. The magic had jumped to Ghost’s cloak when they brushed against it. Would it jump again if they ever met another living Vessel? Or would they have to be truly dead for it to transfer?

How did these other Vessels die? What makes them dead, but not Ghost? Were these other Vessels able to come back, and something prevented them? Did they just… decide not to? Or is coming back something that only Ghost can do?

Do they have a choice? They haven’t died wanting to stay that way. They wish they didn’t think that it was something that could happen, but looking at this Vessel, they could see reaching a point where they wanted to stay dead, not come back. Stay lost in that in-between, fade away until nothing mattered.

Lost.

Why did Ghost leave Hallownest? They don’t remember leaving, they don’t remember ever being here to have left in the first place. Can you be lost if you were never meant to be somewhere? They may have been made for a purpose, but they obviously weren’t chosen to fulfill it. This Vessel wasn’t chosen for that purpose either, even if the location they are in looks ceremonial. The Hollow Knight is the one who was chosen.

What happened to the other Vessels that weren’t chosen? Were there other Vessels besides the three they are aware of now? How many others were there? How hard was it to make a Vessel? Was one made and tried, found lacking and another made? Ghost doesn’t see how there could be any survivors in that scenario. Either a failure failed in use, or it was disassembled to determine the flaws when it failed testing. Which suggests that multiple Vessels were made at once, and one selected from that batch. The usual result of being a failed batch is also destruction, disposal. In a large enough batch there could be survivors — depending on the method of destruction. How many batches were there? This vessel had grown, or had been larger when it was originally made.

Ghost was a failure, or had been judged lacking by some unknown standard. Unfit. Defective.

They don’t feel like a failure. The things they have lacked in their life have been more a consequence of their otherness and their decision to cut themself off from reaching out to others after the first few spectacular disasters. The argument could potentially be made that this decision to stop trying was a failure, but they don’t think it would be a sound one.

Ghost wandered for nearly 300 years, or at least that is what they have records for. They remember most of it, in some fashion or another. The older memories are fuzzy, faded, and they are unsure of how sound they are, but that’s normal too. Older memories fade when they aren’t recalled; it was why they started drawing, keeping a haphazard journal. It gave them a focus, to help remember when they wanted to.

Their oldest memory is clear, though. They woke up one day, sitting on a bench in a little town in the middle of nowhere. They hadn’t known who they were, what they were doing, how they had gotten to where they were. They hadn’t been, and then they were.

They had understood the language, known basic math, known how to fight, and had been able to read although they couldn’t write. They remember that struggle, although it is one of the fuzzy memories. Getting their hands to do any fine or precise work had taken years upon years and then even more years of frustration, determination, and practice. That practice had been the start of their journal.

Wandering aimlessly, they traveled from town to village to city for a very long time, not paying attention to where they went. Existing. Observing. Watching and learning but not engaging.

It had been an accident, helping that first bug. He had fallen down into a ravine, snapping one of his legs off and severely cracking an arm. Ghost had happened upon him only a couple of hours later, but it was in a remote area — if Ghost hadn’t come along, it was likely to have been days before anyone else did. They had already learned not to touch other bugs, not to let other bugs touch them. There hadn’t been much choice though, and ultimately, he hadn’t commented on it.

Between the two of them, they managed to get him up and out of the ravine, and Ghost had helped get him back to his family. It had been slow travel and taken several days. Ghost had been impressed by his determination and stamina. The pain had been incredible, but he had new hatchlings he hadn’t met yet, and a partner he loved deeply. He told Ghost many stories of the things he’d done, how he’d met his partner, adventures with his siblings, stuff he made up simply to not fade into the haze of the pain. And he had kept going. One of the days they had traveled less than a league due to the terrain and his injuries, and his only comment had been “that’s a league we don’t have to travel tomorrow.”

Coming home, he had been welcomed with shouts of joy and rapidly surrounded by neighbors, friends, family. Ghost hadn’t fit into the scene and had nearly managed to slip away before he started shouting, and they had been cornered by a couple of kids. The children had been absolutely fascinated by Ghost, but had done as instructed and grabbed their hands and drug them back into the middle of everything. They had commented freely on what Ghost felt like, but in the “ew, gross, let me do it again” way of the young in most cultures.

The family gave them several days’ worth of food — they had tried to refuse it, but they still couldn’t write, and they could tell they were starting to cause offense by refusing — a little money, and a strategy game with several little carved pieces that the eldest child had made. Ghost still has the game; they eventually even learned to play.

Ghost had been happy. Happy to have accomplished something that was so tangibly _good_ , that made so many bugs happier, brought someone home and made so many lives better. By simply existing and choosing to stop and help instead of walking on, they had made the world a better place. And so, they had a purpose, a reason to be. They hadn’t needed or wanted the reward. (They have to admit that the game with its carved pieces is one of their most beloved possessions.)

Life with a purpose.

By the standards of a bug, Ghost has lived a life mostly worth living, which is all anyone could ask for.

So, they aren’t a failure as a bug. Just as a Vessel.

The chosen Vessel is also a failure.

Is being too much like a bug a failure in a Vessel? They realize they haven’t asked Quirrel if he knows what the requirements were to be selected. He hasn’t volunteered those details either, which means either he doesn’t know, or he doesn’t want to say.

Hornet possibly knows. She said she was testing them, although that testing was by way of murdering them. Was the test to see if they came back? Trial by combat, but also for strength of… resolve? She said they were stubborn and was _pleased_ at that fact.

Having now fought so many things here in Hallownest that were significantly more difficult than her test, she had to have been holding back. She wouldn’t still be alive if that were the best she could do.

Did Hornet murder the Vessel in Greenpath?

Their corpse had been left with a nail shoved through their chest. Left as a message, perhaps, but for whom? Hornet sure as hell didn’t need it, and the Infected wouldn’t understand it. Was it for another Vessel, like Ghost? Admittedly they don’t have much to go on, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of message Hornet would leave. She is far more pointed in how she delivers that kind of information.

When had that message been left? The Vessel in Greenpath hadn’t been there for 300 years, Ghost was certain. Fifty, maybe. Quirrel might be better suited to judge, but they had seen Hornet talking to the little body. Her grief wasn’t fresh, but it wasn’t old.

Would she have grieved for Ghost? How odd, to think she might. But it doesn’t feel _wrong_ to think she would.

Do they have memories of her, from before? Quirrel says she is Herrah’s daughter, sired by the Pale King. He also thinks that Ghost would have left the kingdom before he did, although there is no way to know or prove that. Unless Hornet knew Ghost from before. She was six when Quirrel left, and therefore unlikely to remember any transient meeting with Ghost that may have occurred. If she does specifically remember _Ghost_ , then it means they left when she was older.

Getting her to stop and talk to them — or Quirrel — seems unlikely. Extremely unlikely if they can’t find her again, wherever this ashen grave is located.

Quirrel is kneeling beside them, gently trying to get their attention.

They touch the side of the Vessel’s broken face, leaning forward to rest their forehead against the side of their head.

He quietly says their name again and touches their shoulder. Sighing, they sit back and look up at him.

“The food is ready, and I went ahead and started setting up to sleep here. I think it would be best if we rest before moving on.” His hand has moved from their shoulder and is now massaging their back, small comforting circles. Turning, they rest their forehead against his knee for a long moment, not thinking, relaxing into the comfort.

When they finally stand up, he leans over and kisses them, then takes their hand and leads them over to the fire.

* * *

Quirrel is bundled up and resting against the backpack, which he has propped against the wall. Ghost is mostly in his lap, sideways with one arm around his back and resting their chin on top of his belly as he rubs their back. His chin is on top of one of their horns, although he occasionally moves and kisses them there before putting his chin back.

Softly, he asks, “Do you want to talk about anything?”

Yes, they do, but they don’t even know where to start. After a moment, they make a small nod but then bury their face into his chest.

He pauses the back rub to pull them into a tight hug, kissing them again.

“Yes, but you don’t know where to start?”

Ghost nods.

Relaxing again, Quirrel leaves the arm he has cradling them where it is, his hand against their legs, and brings the other up against the back of their head and starts massaging there instead of their back. With a small sigh he says, “I don’t know how to help you with that, unfortunately.” Another kiss. “I quite like holding you, so I don’t mind sitting here for a while.” And another, followed by a gentle squeeze. His hand drops back down and resumes rubbing their back, and he starts softly humming a song they don’t recognize.

Instead of simply relaxing them so they know where to start, after a few minutes Ghost falls asleep.

* * *

They dream of fire, of molten Infection being poured into them, filling them up, burning away who they are as it chews up their body from the inside out. As their head shatters, one of their horns sliding off, they try and reach up to grab it and hold it together, only to feel one of their arms burst and dissolve into orange mist.

Ghost bolts awake and scrambles to their feet, breathing hard. With their sudden movement, Quirrel has woken up as well and is now sitting and watching them warily.

“Ghost? Are you awake?”

At their sharp nod he relaxes, only to tense back up as they start patting themself all over. They need to make sure everything is still there, but they can’t _reach_ as they try and feel their horns, they can’t _reach_.

Dashing back to Quirrel, they grab his hand and put it on their head before realizing they don’t know how to ask the question they need the answer to. He seems to have figured it out, though, because he brings his other hand up and very firmly traces both of their horns from the base to the top and then back down on the inside as well before stroking back across the top of their head to the back.

Sobbing with relief, they lurch forward and wrap their arms around his neck. He holds them, murmuring reassurances as they cling.

* * *

Quirrel says they haven’t slept for long and wants to try and get some more sleep. Reluctantly they agree to try, laying back down. He feeds the fire a little, getting it going again before turning his back to it. He gathers up the insulated pad, doubling it over and pulling them firmly against him this time, rather than the gentle cuddle from before. Trembling, they roll onto their side and huddle into him, letting him shelter them.

Quirrel begins a quiet song, and as they listen, they slowly manage to relax back into sleep.

* * *

After Quirrel has eaten breakfast, Ghost is sitting in his lap, slate in hand. They have decided to start with asking about Vessels, to see if he remembers more and is willing to tell them whatever he hadn’t before.

“Do you know how the Hollow Knight was chosen?” they write. Feeling him shift, they add, “Or if you don’t know, do you think you ever did?”

“Not really,” he says. “And I don’t think I ever knew any details. I remember,” and he winces, puts his hand up against his head and presses hard.

They wait, hoping they haven’t just triggered a migraine.

“Gods, I hate this,” he mutters as he curls forward. When they start to move, he snakes his other arm around their middle and pulls them back, so they relax and go back to waiting.

It takes a few minutes, but he shudders and sits back with a sigh, covering his eyes for a few moments. “I don’t even know what happened this time, what connections were made.” They feel him tense up, and he brings his hands back down to his legs. He has them balled into fists, so they reach out and start massaging one of them. Sighing again, he tucks his other arm back down and around their middle, turning the hand they are massaging palm up; they bring theirs forward and grasp his finger and he wraps his hand around their arm. Curling forward, he briefly rests his chin on their head before kissing them softly. As he straightens back up, he kisses the inside of their horn.

“I remember that Monomon had worked with the Pale King, helping him with the theoretical side. Most of that work happened before I even became a student; I was never a part of it, although we discussed it later. I saw that some of her notes were pulled up in the acid, and I know you wandered around reading a few of them. Did you retrieve them?”

They had read what was there but hadn’t actually tried to change what was displayed; hadn’t realized that was possible, although in retrospect that was a silly assumption. They write, “I didn’t know it was possible to change what was showing. I simply read what was showing in the tubes, although the coding made it difficult.”

Quirrel barks a sharp laugh. “That’s right, it was encoded! I’m surprised you could make anything of it, Monomon had believed it to be secure.”

Ghost shrugs, writes, “I wrote it down later, although I had to go back—” and they stop.

He squeezes them gently and says, “I understand now why you didn’t approach me there, after.” He kisses them and continues, “Yes, it hurt that you didn’t, but both of us were working with broken assumptions and grief, and I didn’t know how different it was in there. I thought that was just how it was going to be, that I was going to have to live that way.” He shudders. “I never have said thank you,” he whispers.

Setting the slate down, they turn around and stand up to hold him, arms around his neck, one hand rubbing his head under his kerchief. He holds them for a while, murmurs “Thank you” again, and nuzzles the side of their head for a few moments before nibbling scratchy kisses at the base of their horn.

Stepping back, they lay their hands on his cheeks and just look at him. He cups their face in his hands to draw them back into a tender kiss before resting his mask against their forehead and rubbing his thumbs along their cheeks.

Pulling back with a quiet hum, he looks into their eyes for a moment before dropping his hands. “It really was supposed to be exceedingly difficult to crack. I would have judged it impossible if all you had to go on was what showed in the displays.” He smiles and then chuckles, “You do like doing the impossible though.”

Embarrassed, Ghost ducks their head and turns to grab the slate, sitting back in his lap so they don’t have to face him.

Quirrel laughs, and settles back to continue the conversation, resting one of his hands against their abdomen.

Ghost writes, “Just because I managed to turn it into words doesn’t mean those words made any godsdamned sense when read.” They are still bitter about that.

Quirrel huffs, then says, “I don’t remember what they said very well at this point, but yes, they were definitely condensed to shorthand prior to being encoded. But ultimately, they were notes on theory, how replacing parts of an egg with void would create a Vessel. Why Monomon thought it might work, in a very general sense. Nothing detailed, although I could review what you wrote and see if I am remembering incorrectly.”

Shaking their head, they write, “No, I believe you are correct. There may have been more notes if all I saw was whatever was left showing, but nothing I saw \- - - indicated what was needed, how the Hollow Knight was chosen, what made me or this other Vessel a failure.”

Reaching the end of the slate, Quirrel jerks upright. “Ghost! You aren’t—”

They start erasing, then gently smack his leg so he will wait. He sputters out another “But—” and they poke him again and finish erasing.

“You can’t tell me I was a success, or I would be locked in that temple. I wasn’t chosen. \- - - That means I failed at whatever it was that they thought a Vessel needed to be. I don’t know how many Vessels \- - - were created, beyond ‘at least four but probably more.’ Was the Hollow Knight chosen out of ten, or chosen out of fifty? \- - - The implications are very different. Was I an absolute failure or was I the next choice? What were the criteria?”

Quirrel shudders deeply, clutches them tightly, starts to speak and stops.

“Why don’t you want to tell me?”

Leaning forward, he kisses the top of their head, his mandibles scraping softly. He brushes his fingers across the words they wrote and shakes his head.

“The ideal Vessel was meant to be… oh, _Ghost_.” He squeezes them tight. “If you are an example of what a Vessel truly is,” he whispers, “then there was never any chance. It was—” he hiccups a small sob, starts again, “ _They were_ supposed to be a living creation that the Infection could latch into. They were to have no mind to think, so that they couldn’t hope or fear. They were to have no will to break, so that they would never give up.”

They feel him shake his head. “I always wondered about that. You cannot have something alive that doesn’t _want_ or _need_ in some capacity.”

Pausing for a few moments, he rubs his cheek against their horn. “As a Vessel, you are such an absolute failure that I cannot imagine how the Hollow Knight could be so categorically different from you and still be of the same make. The only explanation that makes sense to me is that they were striving with all of their being to be exactly what the Pale King wanted them to be, presenting as a perfect Vessel to the world, never letting anyone see that they weren’t.”

Quirrel sighs deeply. “And they _succeeded_. They had me and everyone else believing that they had no mind, that they were the perfect automaton — never mind how quickly they learned new skills, their adaptability and ability to anticipate. No one wanted to look, no one wanted to see. Our whole future was hanging on them being what the Pale King said they were.” They can hear anger growing in his voice.

Inhaling deeply, he sits up straight, his hands moving to their sides. “And then Hornet showed up.” His hands clench tight, digging in; he realizes what he’s doing and lets go, moving them to his knees instead.

“I didn’t spend much time at the White Palace until a month or two prior to the ceremony, when I was asked to assist in tutoring Hornet after her original tutor fell to the Infection and they were seeking another. She didn’t care about what the Hollow Knight was _supposed_ to be. They were her sibling, and she loved them with everything that she was. It was watching them play together that allowed me to see it.”

His anger bursts free, and he slams the ground with a fist. “ _They loved her back_. I can see now that they would have done anything to make her happy, except break the facade they had to the rest of the world. How she spoke of them, what she said of their play together, was not that of an automaton doing what it was told. So, I started watching. I didn’t have to watch for long.”

He is damn near growling now. “I observed, I noted, I wrote it down and documented it, and I wrote a report summarizing my doubts to Monomon. She _fucking dismissed it_ , said I had to be mistaken in my observations.” Sweeping his arm out and away, then slamming his hand flat against the ground he continues, “I wasn’t mistaken. When I came back with more observations and another report, I was suddenly needed for other projects and no longer available to go to the White Palace. I was livid that she would so unilaterally dismiss what I was saying, that she would reject, that she would…” He stutters to a stop, inhales, makes a tiny moan, and then collapses to his side with a gasp, holding his head.

* * *

The two of them had discussed what Ghost should do if Quirrel became truly incapacitated with a migraine while traveling. Ghost is just grateful that they are in a relatively secluded location where the only danger is the random shadow creeper creeping up on them.

Quirrel had remained conscious just long enough to get sick. After he had passed out, they had shoved him onto his side and propped him that way with the backpack. Removing his mask, they place it in the backpack and pull out the eye covering he had put together with the sudden surplus of silk. Positioning it and lining up the pads, they cover his eyes and tie it in place.

Cleaning up the mess, they push it into the fire to dispose of it. It doesn’t smell very nice, so they put more wood into the fire to try and get it burned up faster. It is debatable whether or not they succeed. The important thing is that it stops stinking before Quirrel wakes up.

They dig the painkillers out of the hip pack, pull a canteen out of the backpack, and sit by his head. Placing the supplies within easy reach, Ghost adjusts themself and places their hands on his head as close as they can remember to how they had them last time, and settles in to wait.

* * *

Ghost feels Quirrel tense up slightly, then he gasps and starts whimpering. They shift their hands, then start rubbing small circles with their thumbs. The second-hardest part of watching Quirrel suffer through this is being almost completely unable to communicate. They wait for him to speak, the painkillers ready nearby. They had both agreed that if he couldn’t manage to ask for the medication, it wouldn’t be safe for him to try and take it.

Quirrel is panting, a quiet whimper with every breath. Every couple of seconds, he moans. Suddenly he reaches around, arm sweeping backwards across the ground until it smacks into their leg. He gasps and turns his hand, grabbing their thigh painfully hard. He stays still for a few more breaths, then curls into a ball, sobbing softly.

They want him to ask for the painkillers. Watching him hurt like this is awful, they want to help him but there isn’t anything they can do. They start to shift to pick them up, and Quirrel’s hand spasms on their leg and he gasps out, “No!”

Ready to cry, they settle back where they were, sorry they made him talk. After a while, they start counting seconds simply for the distraction.

* * *

A little over twenty minutes later Quirrel unrolls a bit. He’s still panting, still whimpering, but whispers that he’s going to try taking the painkillers, that he thinks he can keep them down. So, they help him sit up enough to swallow the pills, hold him upright for a while longer to make sure they go down and stay down. When he is ready to lay back down, they help him onto his back. It should be safe now that he’s conscious.

They grab a pillow for him, and then sit with their hands on his forehead above his eyes. He shivers, then reaches up and gently guides their hands to a slightly different position before letting go. He swings one of his hands further back a bit, stopping when he runs into their head. He turns his hand and attempts to caress their cheek, instead shoving his thumb into their eyehole.

He jerks his hand back and then freezes, and they gently pat him once, pause, then pat him once again. They had agreed one pat meant yes and two was no, so they hope he recognizes they are trying to tell him they are ok. It didn’t hurt, just felt odd.

After a moment, he whispers, “I didn’t hurt you?”

Ghost gives him two gentle pats, then goes back to the delicate massage.

“I’m sorry.”

They pat him again with a small sigh.

It takes much longer than the previous time but Quirrel eventually falls asleep. They can tell when the pain actually starts to fade, because he relaxes in his sleep. Relieved, they sigh and lean over to brush a kiss on his forehead.

* * *

Quirrel wakes up with a sudden twitch, his hand dropping to where his nail would have been and then his whole body tensing when it isn’t there. Ghost shifts, and he flinches and starts to roll away before stopping himself.

They wonder what his dreams were.

Sounding unsure, he asks, “Who’s there?”

Worried, Ghost slides their hands down his head to just above his cheeks, tucking their fingers under the tie for the eyepatches. They don’t remove it, but hope shifting it reminds him that it is there, helps him ground himself. Waking up from a dream completely disoriented and unsure of one’s surroundings is something they fully understand.

He stills, then his hands move up to his face as if to remove his mask. Discovering it is missing, he pauses and then touches the eyepatches, hesitates, and then moves his hands to cover theirs. He follows their arms up to their shoulders, then their head. Quietly, he asks, “Ghost?”

Wondering who else he might have known with a head like theirs who has the body temperature of a bronze paperweight, they nod.

Bringing his hands back down to the eyepatches, he sighs and says, “I took painkillers, didn’t I.”

They pat him once, thinking it would have been nice if he had warned them that the pills could cause this kind of side effect.

Gradually, he lifts the eyepatches up and away. Apparently deciding that the light level is acceptable, he pulls them down until they are completely off of his eyes, wrapped around the middle of his face instead. Shifting his head to look around, he sighs and then slowly sits up with a groan. Once he is upright, he unties the eyepatches and then holds them in his lap. He looks woozy. What the fuck was in those pills? They were the ones he had brought with him back to Hallownest, not the ones he had found in some noble’s home and gleefully exclaimed ‘oh, these are the _good_ stuff!’

Quirrel notices them staring.

“Ahhh… well.”

They cock their head at that wonderfully descriptive and helpful comment.

“Hmmm.”

An impressive improvement in detail. They swat his leg.

“They _are_ painkillers!”

Ghost suspects they know where this is going now and are pretty sure they know what is in those pills, but poke him again.

Abashed, he sighs. “The last group I traveled with as I made my way back to Hallownest was rather… free-spirited.” He looks up at them, snorts when he meets their gaze. “Yes, you know exactly what those are, don’t you. Among other things, that drug is effective at treating pain. Several other problems as well, although nowhere near as many as its advocates promote.”

He chuckles. “That drug also causes certain problems, a couple of which those advocates vehemently deny because it clashes with their ‘free love’ ideology.”

They continue to glare because that isn’t what is bothering them.

With a quiet sigh, he apologizes. “I’m sorry. I should have said something, but the vivid dreams and disorientation have only happened once or twice. I don’t use it recreationally very often; I prefer to have my wits about me. I didn’t think of it when we were talking through what I might need.”

Accepting his apology with a nod, they stand up and move in front of him, leaning forward and wrapping their arms around his neck for a hug. He pulls them in the rest of the way, holding on for a while. Humming in contentment, he nuzzles the side of their head, his breath tickling their cheek.

Ghost relaxes into the cuddle, enjoying the moment.

* * *

“Did I manage to mostly answer your question about what the criteria were for selecting the Hollow Knight before I collapsed?” he asks later.

They think for a moment to make sure, and then nod. They weren’t sure what they were expecting that answer to be, but ‘intelligent non-sentient emotionless automaton with no self-will’ hadn’t even shown up on the horizon. They are a spectacular failure if that was what was needed. They aren’t even sure how someone could have looked at those requirements and thought they could make that.

Rubbing against his cheek, they turn and kiss him before stepping back and sitting down in front of him. “You remember some now, bad migraine, you need more sleep?” they sign.

Quirrel starts to shake his head, then stops to think for a moment. Shaking his head again he says, “No, I don’t think I could manage to get to sleep even if I tried. We had just woken up for the day; I doubt we would have even stopped for me to eat lunch yet.”

Ghost wobbles their hand. It would be early, but lunch wouldn’t have been out of the question. Signing, they say, “No, not time lunch. You lost breakfast, need lunch now.”

“Ugh.” He places his hand on his belly and looks disconcerted.

Wishing they had eyes to roll, Ghost pulls out the slate and writes, “You took ‘medicinal herbs’ on an empty stomach five hours ago and expect me to believe you are ready to get up and fight without eating?”

Now he looks put out.

“You don’t need to bring logic into this discussion, I was perfectly content with fallacy and deceit,” he grumps.

Snorting, they poke his leg with the chalk and then write, “Jerky or soup as your side dish for fallacy.”

Covering his eyes with a groan, he says, “Soup. Jerky sounds nauseating.”

* * *

They pack up camp after Quirrel finishes his soup. He still looks woozy but is mostly steady on his feet. The two of them are now standing in front of the Vessel, Ghost resting their hand on their broken shell.

Gently, Quirrel asks, “Is there something you would like to do for them? A memorial, or a plan to move them somewhere for burial?”

Ghost shudders at the thought of burial and shakes their head. They always liked the idea of offering the dead to the skies far more than burying them deep into the dark and locking them away. They would far rather a funeral pyre.

They feel Quirrel rest his hand on their head as he says, “Ok.” Turning away from the Vessel, they press their head into his hip for a moment as he caresses them.

Sighing deeply, they step back and after one final look they walk across the room to the exit on the other side.

* * *

Exploring the other side proves relatively simple. The halls are straight, and Quirrel says that it looks like traditional White Palace architecture, if the Pale King had decided to go gothic.

The air is heavy, and occasionally motes of what look like void condense out of the air only to float up and evaporate again. They stop Quirrel from trying to catch one, wondering how he has managed to survive his curiosity all these years. When they touch one, it immediately soaks into their body. It is extremely disconcerting, so they avoid touching any others.

Everything is deathly quiet. Even their footsteps are muted as the sound is absorbed. The only life around is the persistent grass growing up through the cracks, but instead of glowing a pale white with soul as it does in other areas, it is stained black. Ghost finds it unnerving that it still manages to glow. Touching it, they can tell that it is still alive but has been infused with void.

They drop down several levels, exploring halls and small rooms, continuing to find nothing but motes of void and void-stained grass. Here and there, the walls are streaked with void as well. Quirrel has grown quiet, so they turn and look at him.

He shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says quietly. “I find this place distressing, but I am unsure what is rattling me. I keep expecting something to jump out at us, and it is making me uneasy. It may be residual effects from the drugs—” and trails off as Ghost shakes their head.

He may be a little edgier than normal, but they don’t think it is out of line for where they are and don’t want him trying to dismiss the feeling.

When they reach the end of the bottom level hallways, there is a corridor leading upward and so they start climbing back up. They end up in a larger room that has a dais in the middle which has an exquisitely detailed backstop of a large Hallownest seal surrounded by ornate open metalwork. Hanging in the air, centered in front of the large seal, is a glowing mote of soul. It is surrounded by what looks like tiny versions of the Hallownest seal, lazily floating about as they flap their wings, moving up and fading as they reach the ceiling. As one disappears, another emerges at the bottom, beginning a lazy ascent.

It is beautiful. The dais itself is a work of art, and the spellwork in soul is breathtaking. Quirrel’s hand is resting on their head, and they stand there in awe.

“I presume this is another spell you intend to rip yourself apart with?” he asks, subdued.

They sign, “Unsure. Not same. I know it not hurt me, not know… not understand…” waving their hands about when they don’t have the words for ‘no fucking clue what it will do.’

Laughing softly, Quirrel sits down beside them and pulls them into an embrace. “I love you, but you are reckless.” They intend to pull back and object, but he starts nibbling kisses along their horn and so they just huff a sigh and put up with it. When he stops and draws them back into a hug, they trace their own kisses along his cheek before stepping back and then pointing with intent at one of the nearby void motes.

He smiles and laughs at their response, replying, “Touché.”

Heaving a deep sigh, he looks back at the glowing fragment and says, “Let’s get this over with. I would like to note that you will be destroying what is arguably one of the most delicate pieces of soul art I have ever seen, although I have absolutely no idea why such a lovely thing would be hidden away like this.”

Ghost huffs a laugh, touches the side of his face and then signs “I love you, understand you worry. I ok.”

Turning to look at the work, they have to agree that it is gorgeous. They climb up onto the dais and jump into the beauty, and motes of soul burst apart and swirl around them in a whirlwind of light before flying back towards them and covering them in a glow of soul. Momentarily stunned, glowing brightly, they fall to the floor and just kneel for a moment before standing back up.

Quirrel is staring at them. They cock their head a little, curious. It certainly wasn’t as terrifying as the last one, but he looks overwhelmed.

“Beautiful. It was beautiful, and you didn’t get ripped apart. You were _glowing_ , it was gorgeous.” His relief is evident in his smile, and he wraps his arms around his middle as he shivers.

“So, what does it do?”

They really wish they had a way to grin, because this one is going to be _fun_. They hope it doesn’t consume soul when they use it, because that would fucking suck and make it a whole lot less fun, but they have enough to try even if it does.

Glancing up briefly, they leap into the air. When they start to fall down, they concentrate for a moment and just before they hit the ground, ethereal wings burst out from behind them and with a powerful flap propel them back into the air. Landing on the ground, they quiver in glee to discover that they don’t use any soul at all. Bouncing a little, they hug themself in pure joy and spin around, turning to face Quirrel who is staring at them in astonishment.

Unable to contain their elation, they leap into the air again, this time successfully using the wings at the top of their jump, making it nearly to the ceiling. They try to use them again, but discover they can’t manage to recover before they land again. Ah well. Bouncing in a circle, they leap and fly again, and then again in excitement. Spinning around, they hop in place and look at Quirrel, who is beaming at them, sharing their joy.

Bounding over to him, they grab him in a brief hug before promptly springing away and vaulting into another leap of flight. They hear his laughter, and he claps his hands in delight as they leap about the room, and his joy adds to their exhilaration.

When they finally stop bouncing around the room, they stop in front of Quirrel. He looks elated, and is grinning at them with an intensity to his gaze they have started to recognize. He begins to say something, then shakes his head and pulls them into a tight hug, humming and then releasing them briefly to kiss them several times with fervor before clasping them back against him. They wrap their arms around him, one hand on his back and holding hard, the other snaking up under his kerchief and rubbing the back of his head. They lose themself into the joy of being held.

* * *

Making their way back to their camp at the hidden stag station, Ghost stops and freezes when they enter the room with the Vessel again.

They are surrounded in Essence.

Ghost wants to cry. They thought that the Vessel had found peace, been released from their torment. They aren’t sure what makes a particular being stay and remain in the Dream Realm, but in this case they are certain that it isn’t the Vessel’s will or desire to stay. They feel Quirrel kneel beside them, asking them what is wrong.

Could he see the Essence, if they hand him the Dream Nail? He wasn’t able to do much with it, but they hadn’t been able to at first either. It had still enabled them to see the ghosts, to see Essence in places where it existed.

They whirl and bury their face into the side of his head, sobbing. Confused, he holds them as they cry, holds them until they calm down enough to step back a little and pull out the Dream Nail.

Quirrel goes absolutely still when he sees them pull it out, and after a moment he whispers, “ _No…_ ” and whirls to look at the Vessel.

So, he does remember what they had told him about the Soul Master, the False Knight.

They touch his shoulder and hold out the Dream Nail for him to take.

“Do you want me to use it?” he whispers.

Ghost shakes their head and signs, “You maybe see, not fight. I need cry first, fight later. Help them go. Need help them go, not hurt more.” Shuddering, they grab themself tight around the middle for a moment, then continue signing, “I need cry first, maybe sleep first. I need hug first. I unsure I fight good, maybe not fight good let them go. I not know.”

Wrapping their arms back around their middle, they make themself stop babbling and nod towards the Vessel. Quirrel stares at them for a moment before leaning in and brushing a kiss against their cheek. When he looks at the Vessel while holding the Dream Nail, he gasps.

Looking back at them, he asks, “That’s Essence?”

Ghost nods.

Quirrel sets the Dream Nail aside and draws them forward, and they collapse into his lap, grabbing onto him and crying as he holds them.

* * *

At Quirrel’s suggestion, Ghost agreed to go back to the camp at the hidden stag station to rest, rather than in the entryway to the room with the Vessel. It was warmer, safer, and less fraught with memories. He held them while they cried some more, then embraced them until they fell asleep.

They have since returned to the Vessel. Ghost has explained what the Dream fights were like before, but now they give him a few more details. They have no idea what happens to them out here, but suspect it just looks like they are sleeping. He is relieved to hear that when they are injured it doesn’t seem to affect their body, and that they don’t die, they just wake up. The fights are exhausting, but it is more mental than physical. They expect this one will be worse than the Failed Champion. The Vessel had been driven by Infection, and so Ghost expects that within the Dream Realm — where the Infection reigns — the Vessel will be even stronger, the blobs and ghosts of Infection far more frequent, and the fight will be brutal. The mental anguish will just add to it.

Ghost doesn’t know how long it is going to take, can’t give Quirrel any information on how many tries they will need to release their kin from the Infection’s hold. They know they likely won’t know when to stop if it proves beyond them, and are glad Quirrel is here for them. Giving him a small kiss, they turn around and swing the Dream Nail.

Waking up shortly after falling off of one of the Dream platforms, they have to admit to Quirrel that they tripped and fell out of the Dream. Embarrassed, they ignore his puzzlement and swing again.

The second trip isn’t much longer. They were right; in the Dream Realm the Infection is far stronger and its hold on the Vessel is intense. Their movements are smoother, stronger, faster, surer. Ghost wonders if the Vessel had been fighting back in the first fight, whether the jerky movements had been less from being used as a puppet and more due to internal conflict. The thought infuriates them as they swing the Dream Nail to begin again.

* * *

Quirrel grabs their hand as they prepare to swing again, and they jerk back as anger flares briefly. He doesn’t let go, and they remember that they told him to do this, told him to make them stop after a while and talk to him, so they tamp it down. Shaking, they take a few deep breaths, doing the calming exercises. His grip shifts as they relax, and he pulls on their arm to turn them towards him. Once they are facing him, he drops their arm and lifts his hand to touch their face; they flinch. He stops and drops his hand, and they start to turn around, embarrassed and confused at their reaction.

“Ghost, it’s alright,” he says quietly, and they stop. They haven’t turned far, but stare at his knee rather than look into his eyes.

“Touch isn’t always comforting, especially when you are angry or frustrated. I won’t say I expected it, but your reaction isn’t surprising to me. I’m not offended, please don’t worry.”

They nod, but continue to stare at his knee.

He doesn’t remark on it, merely asks, “Do you know how many attempts you have made?”

They hadn’t kept counting after the first few, although since they told him to stop them after eight, they are guessing it’s eight. But since they don’t know and are deducing, they shake their head.

“The first few were short, so I didn’t count them towards your eight. This would have started your twelfth attempt. Your frustration says it is time for a break as well. Do you want to sit here, or go back over to the entryway?” At their hesitation he says, “I suggest the entryway, I think walking a little will help break the pattern you are stuck in. It’s what we had the trainees do when they were overwhelmed.” They finally look up at him, and he gives them a small smile. “It’s morbid, but you did call it practice when you first told me about this. I think I prefer to call it training, but either way the mind needs to take breaks, or it stops learning.”

Slumping, they nod and then point to the entryway, accepting his recommendation. He stands up, and as he starts walking they take his hand and walk alongside him. He squeezes their hand briefly but makes no other comment.

* * *

Countless attempts later, they finally succeed. Exhausted, they just lay there after the Dream fades, staring at nothing. There are so many things they probably should have done differently, including taking Quirrel’s frustrated suggestion an hour or two ago to upgrade their nail.

“Ghost,” they hear him murmur. “Ghost, I think I see… are you back? I can almost see…” and he stops.

They push themself upright and look at the ghost of their kin, of the Vessel. Its gaze is locked on Quirrel, who is staring back but not quite finding their eyes.

Their kin is whole, and beautiful. When Ghost stands up, they glance at them briefly before looking back at Quirrel.

Quirrel looks at Ghost and asks, “The Vessel, is… are they a spirit? Or am I…” He stops when Ghost nods their head.

Ghost looks up at their kin, who is now looking at them. Ghost cocks their head, and the Vessel’s spirit glances at Quirrel and then Ghost. Ghost feels like they are pleading with them, and so they nod and turn back to Quirrel, and hand him the Dream Nail.

When he looks back to the Vessel, he gasps in shock. Without the Dream Nail, Ghost finds they can’t see the Vessel’s spirit as well, although once they place their hand on Quirrel’s shoulder again the spirit regains form. The Vessel is staring at Quirrel again, waiting.

“Ghost, I…” Quirrel stops, and then addresses the spirit instead.

“Did I know you?” he asks quietly.

They drift there, unmoving for several moments, before shifting forward some and giving him a minute nod.

Quirrel inhales sharply, and sitting up straighter he holds his hand out, palm up.

“Forgive me, please. My memories from Hallownest were taken from me, blocked. I don’t… you look familiar, but I don’t _remember_ ; I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” He’s whispering by the end, and Ghost can see tears starting to fall.

The Vessel’s spirit drifts down in front of Quirrel and watches him, watches the tears fall, and reaches for his hand. Ghost realizes what is going to happen just before contact is made, and lets go of Quirrel’s shoulder, stepping back to allow him to accept the gift the Vessel is granting him even if he doesn’t know what is happening. At their movement, both Quirrel and the Vessel look to Ghost, and the Vessel pulls back a little.

Ghost can’t see as well now that they aren’t touching Quirrel, but they shake their head firmly and point at him, taking another step back to let the Vessel know they accept their choice. They think they see the Vessel nod and move back to Quirrel, who turns back at their movement. A few seconds later Quirrel gasps and Ghost sees a flare of purplish-yellow light envelop him briefly before settling into his shell. They wait for a moment to give the Essence time to settle, and then step up beside him and touch his shoulder.

He gasps and turns to face them; he is weeping.

“Ghost, what happened? I don’t understand, I think I knew them but…” he gestures at where the spirit had been and continues, “What did I do to deserve their gift?” he whispers. “I don’t _remember_ , you are the one who set them free, who released them, they should have given it to _you!_ Not someone who barely remembers—”

Ghost steps up and gently places their hand on his mouth, stopping him. They shake their head, then pull out their slate. Writing, they tell him, “It was theirs to gift, not mine to take.”

They watch him as he reads, then continue, “Even if you never remember, whatever it was you did or were meant something to them. And so they gifted you with a part of themself.”

Putting the slate away and stepping into his lap, they wrap him in their arms, and he folds them into a tight hug as they both cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s bug weed folks. Quirrel hooked up with traveling hippies, and he has himself some bug weed.
> 
> * * *
> 
> My beta and I argued for an hour or two about the letters ‘h’ and ‘a’ and ‘d’, in particular my tendency to like using them all neatly lined up one after another. I swear they removed that particular letter combination from this chapter at least fifty times, with extreme prejudice. I kept putting them back, they kept deleting them. Words were had. Many times. With enthusiasm.
> 
> We are currently in détente following a rather vehemently read article from some website or another that said something I refuse to repeat.
> 
> Fuck grammar.


	5. If We Live a Life in Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirrel and Ghost recover for a while, rest, and then go find some more trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> I suppose I should tag for _Canon-typical violence_ at this point, as well as _Injury_ and _Bleeding/Blood_.
> 
>   
>    
> 

#### Quirrel

* * *

Quirrel had debated with himself whether to suggest simply setting up camp in the entryway again or heading back to the abandoned station. In the end, he simply said they should head back to the station. He knows that Ghost is perfectly capable of objecting if they hadn’t wanted to make the two-hour trek before resting. _He_ hadn’t particularly wanted to travel for two hours before resting, but had wanted to stay by the remains of the broken Vessel even less.

On the return trip they had cleaned the corpses of some of the shadow creepers they killed — making the trip even longer — and now Quirrel is poking around in the remains of the Palace Gardens searching for something he can eat. Without the White Lady’s presence, the gardens have floundered. What grows there now is whatever can survive in the low level of light provided by the background presence of soul. That isn’t much.

Quirrel can eat a wide variety of plant matter, and partially decayed plant matter is a necessary component of his diet. However, while this is extraordinarily useful for wandering and travel since he can almost always forage and survive, it doesn’t necessarily make for pleasant eating. In the same way that you could end up with either wine or vinegar from a starting fruit juice, you could end up with something quite fine or absolutely foul from plant matter.

What he is looking at now is mostly in the latter category. It doesn’t help that the starting plants were generally decorative and had been bred and raised for looks and not flavor. The remaining plants are here because they could survive, which also doesn’t tend to select for flavor. Sighing, he picks some fresh leaves and nibbles at them. Mildly surprised, he looks at the leaf again and wonders if perhaps he had judged too soon when he initially believed that the plants had been chosen for looks only. Tasting a second leaf, he decides that either he is hungrier than he thought, or he had indeed been too hasty in his assumptions.

Heartened at the thought that not only can he have a fresh dinner instead of rehydrated or preserved vegetables but that he can make it taste good, he wanders along a path and gathers.

* * *

Returning to the station, Quirrel finds Ghost huddled in a miserable heap by the fire. Their legs are folded up and their chin is resting on their knees, arms wrapped around their legs, cloak puddled around them. Saddened, he sets his forage down and snags a blanket before sitting down beside them and tucking it around himself. As he drapes his arm around them, they turn and bury their face into his side, and he pulls them close.

When they finally sit up, he moves to face them more directly but leaves his hand rubbing their back. They stare into their lap for a while, then stand up and hug him. Wrapping them in his arms, he returns the hug. He feels them turn and start pressing kisses against his cheek, finally grabbing the edge of his kerchief in their mouth and yanking it up to nuzzle kisses directly against his neck. He chuckles softly and turns to kiss the side of their face.

Ghost shudders and shoves themself against him, then burrows against his neck to push hard kisses. They work their way up the side of his head towards his chin and mandibles, and he feels their tongue flicker against his shell as they move. He shivers, and they take it as encouragement. Shifting their hands to his cheeks, they move along his chin and nibble at the edge of his mandible, tongue curling up and under, questing. He moans softly; Ghost has gotten _damn_ good at kissing. They had been careful before, shifting away and backing off when his body responded. He hadn’t considered what that would mean if — apparently _when_ — they decided they actually wanted to elicit that response.

They have run up against his mask, still seeking. He doesn’t remove it, but does turn his head to return the kiss, humming as he moves a hand behind their head to press in. Losing himself into the moment, he runs his other hand up under their cloak and rubs along their back. He feels them shudder again, their breathing cold against the side of his arm under their cloak. They grip his cheeks firmly and sink into the kiss before stepping back and running their hands up the side of his head, reaching to remove his mask. Reigning in his reeling libido, he forces himself to look them in the eyes, although he doesn’t move to stop them.

The eye contact makes them pause, then they continue and remove his mask, stepping over to the backpack to tuck it away and then returning. He meets their eyes as they turn back, and once again they hesitate before stepping forward and tracing their hands along his face, thumbs trailing from his vestigial antennae down to his inner mandibles, feather-light touch tracing across the top edge as they move over to his outer mandibles, then trailing along the top of them before sweeping along his cheeks and dropping down to untie his kerchief. So much for reigning anything in. Moaning softly, he shudders and brings his hands up to the side of their head as they drop the kerchief behind him, swinging his antennae around to tap and trace up and down their horns as they lean in to resume the kiss with fervor.

Quirrel eventually manages to pull back and — breathing hard — manages to gasp out the question he should no doubt have asked much earlier.

“Ghost, why _now?_ ”

One of his hands is once again rubbing their back, and he can feel them trembling. They rub a hand across his cheek, and he groans, leaning into the caress before sitting up and looking into their eyes.

Looking puzzled, they move back some and sign, “You not want? You want me stop?”

“Gods, _no_ ,” he moans, “I most _definitely_ don’t want to stop!” He brings his other hand forward from behind their head, laying it on the side of their face. Shivering, he touches the seam of their mouth with his thumb and whispers, “I certainly won’t stop you, and you don’t need to tell me, but I am worried about why you are choosing _now_.”

Ghost stands there, staring at him. He watches back, and after a few moments they step forward again and resume kissing him. Vaguely disappointed they chose not to tell him but aroused enough to consider it a problem for later, he hums as he wraps his hand back behind their head and returns his attention to the kiss, drawing his hand down their back, his thumb tracing their side.

Suddenly they pull back, and he gasps at the unexpected loss of contact. Dazed, he stares at them as they stand in front of him. They didn’t pull back far, and his arms are still around them. Trying to focus and get his attention out of his lap, he goes back to absent-mindedly rubbing their back.

Hesitating, not quite meeting his eyes, they haltingly sign, “I not want to think. I not want to remember. I want different think, want to touch you, think happy, touch good. I think,” and they stop a moment before continuing, “I see other bug use sex to stop think, forget hurt small time.”

Quirrel nods a little; it’s what he had suspected they wanted. He has no objections to the idea in general, just a deep worry about how they will feel later if the first time they have sex is due to intense grief and a desire to forget what is going on for a while.

They aren’t done talking, so he waits while they sort their thoughts out and continue.

“I love you. I respect you think, I think you understand I’m sad, understand I’m hurt, listen me scared.” Ghost thinks some more. “I respect you think sex. I think you tell me I need to think first, not sex now, not sex to forget sad.”

They finally meet his eyes, and he nods again. His arousal is screaming at him, but he resolutely ignores it.

Ghost slumps, and he gently tugs them forward. He realizes his miscalculation as they collapse into his lap, landing against the ‘burgeoning evidence of his desire,’ as his most recent book had so eloquently put it. He gasps and they bolt upright and then stare at his lap, which is covered in blanket. He muzzily decides that is probably for the best.

They look up and sign, “I’m sorry!”

With a breathy laugh he says, “I’m ok. Just startled!” He shifts some and bunches the blanket up a bit, then tugs them back into his lap. They don’t flop as hard and stay off to the side this time.

Quirrel relaxes, leaning back on one arm and taking a couple of deep breaths to settle himself as Ghost snuggles into the side of his belly, turning their head into his chest and sighing. They start to drape their arm across his belly but catch themself and tuck it back against their chest.

Chuckling softly, he says, “You can put your arm there if you wish, it doesn’t bother me although I understand if it bothers you.” He dips his head and kisses the top of their horn. “Either way, without stimulation it’ll go away in a minute or two.”

Ghost nods slightly, then hesitantly drapes their arm over his belly. When he doesn’t react, they relax and sigh again. He gently rubs their leg where his hand is resting, and stares into the fire. Ghost startles slightly when his erection finally tucks away, and he huffs a laugh as he kisses their horn again.

After a few minutes, Quirrel sighs deeply. “I am certain you are aware, but in the interest of clear communication I want to verify that you do know I am extremely willing to have sex with you whenever the mood strikes? Including now?”

They snort quietly, nod, and give his belly a pat.

“Well, yes, I suppose the evidence was rather obvious.” He nuzzles the top of their horn, kisses it.

“Something I perhaps haven’t made explicitly clear, however, is the fact that I am waiting for you to approach me, for you to make an active choice. Is that something you had figured out?”

Ghost is still for a moment, then shakes their head but wobbles their hand.

Quirrel puffs a quiet laugh. “You didn’t know but aren’t surprised now that I point it out?”

They nod.

He rests his chin on their horn for a few moments before quietly saying, “It’s the only way I can be sure I am not unknowingly pressuring you. I did it differently in the past, where I asked if my partner was interested occasionally. Well, what I thought was occasionally. She disagreed.” Sighing, he makes a small shrug and continues, “I thought it would let her know I still found her attractive. It turns out I had a fundamental misunderstanding of her asexuality and how she wanted to be seen.” He shakes his head. “There were ultimately many other reasons we weren’t good for each other, but that was one of the disagreements where I came to realize later how wrong I was.”

Watching the fire, he muses, “I did manage to apologize to her.” He snorts. “She even accepted it, which surprised me.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, watching the fire.

Quietly he says, “Using sex to not think about life for a while is fine, I’ve done it myself.” Ghost tenses up a little, then sits up to look at him. “My only concern is that you’ve never had sex. And while I think that waiting for some mythical ‘perfect opportunity’ to have sex for the first time is complete balderdash, I also think that choosing to use a moment of grief and pain might be a mistake.”

He reaches around and traces the side of their horn. “But it is your moment to choose, not mine. If you want it to be now, I am certain I can accommodate your wish.”

They snort, then look down at their lap. Placing one of their hands on their abdomen and then covering it with the other, they sit and then knead their belly gently. After a moment they sigh, shake their head a little, and look up at him. He rests his hand on the side of their face again and waits. They shiver, turn their head to kiss his palm, and then move so they can lean back against him. Stretching their arm across his belly and the other across his back, they squeeze him and then bury their face into his chest. He feels them start shaking as they begin to cry.

Leaning forward, he brings his other arm around to hold them tight. Resting the center of his face against one of their horns, he kisses it and then goes back to watching the fire.

* * *

They putter around camp the next day, organizing their belongings and packing up. They spend some time reviewing the signs Ghost knows as well as adding a few more, and then Ghost takes off for a little while to go and fetch the Geo from the conglomeration formation that Quirrel had nearly killed himself over. Quirrel is using part of the time they are gone to try stitching the pad they have been using for insulation into something more stable, and his sewing skills are as abysmal as he remembered. The only thing that can be said for what he is accomplishing is that he has spent time trying, and that the stitches he is making two hours later are noticeably more consistent than the ones he had made at first.

Hearing the hum from the Crystal Heart as they return, he pulls the needle off of the thread and tucks it into the small case of needles he has stashed in his hip pack. He stands up to fold the pad as they shoot across the room and land in front of him.

Smiling fondly, he asks, “Did it go well?”

Ghost nods, then points to the toll machine and signs, “Not enough.”

He sighs, then nods and finishes folding up the pad. Handing it to Ghost so they can put it away, he gathers up the remnants of the sewing and then stares at them before setting the scraps back down in the fire circle to be burned later. Kneeling beside the backpack to tie it closed and put it on, he asks, “So what is the plan? I am going to guess your new ability to leap will help greatly for re-ascending the elevator shaft; is that how we will head back?”

Reminded, Ghost starts bouncing around the room again. Quirrel laughs as he stands and straps the backpack into place. The wings are absolutely gorgeous, ethereal and glowing. They look like a cicada’s wings crafted with soul. Their beauty pales in comparison to Ghost’s happiness while using them, and their joy fills him delight — he wants to grab them, hold them and leap around, dance with them.

They have turned and are facing him, and suddenly they bounce and fly into his arms. He laughs and snatches them out of the air and then spins around a couple of times while holding them out in front of him. He feels them laughing, and as he stops they clap their hands and reach for him. Bringing them closer to him, they grab his face and then angle in for an enthusiastic kiss. Shifting his stance and leaning back, he puts their feet on his belly so he can bring a hand up to the side of their face. Caressing them, he gently rubs their horn and hums with happiness.

When they have finished the kiss, they lean back against his hand and he chuckles. With a little snort, they splay their legs out and drop onto their bottom on top of his belly, one hand gently holding his arm. He laughs and brings his other hand to their back, lacing his fingers together behind them and smiling as they settle.

After watching him for a few moments, they sign, “We go back a different way. Explore a different area. Maybe meet—” they wave their hands a little and try again. “Maybe meet a bug I know; I think you know him but forgot.”

They hesitate, then sigh and sign what he was dreading. “I think seeing him give you migraine.” He tenses up. “I think you need to see him. I think he needs to see you. Maybe you need time to think, maybe you wait to see him.”

He feels slightly ill at the thought of deliberately doing something he knows is extremely likely to trigger a migraine, especially so soon after the last one. He shudders and looks away to stare at the wall for a few moments. Ghost leans forward and pushes themself up to stand on the top of his belly again. They wrap their arms around his neck and tuck their head over his shoulder, hugging him tight. He returns the hug, turning his head to rub his cheek against the back of their head.

Quirrel stands like that a long time, occasionally nuzzling his cheek against their head and massaging their back, mind numb. Ghost just continues to hold him, rubbing his back, massaging the back of his head, letting him think.

“Can the meeting at least wait until tomorrow?” he whispers.

Ghost nods, and he shivers again. Tucking his face against the side of their head, he says, “Thank you.” A few moments later he adds, “And thank you for the warning. I think.”

Ghost huffs a small laugh and squeezes him.

* * *

They are in the Royal Waterways. Quirrel isn’t quite clear on how they ended up here, but he is extremely certain he doesn’t want to be here any longer. In addition to the dread of the forthcoming meeting Ghost has threatened him with, Quirrel has memories dancing around both within and just out of reach of being here before as both a trainee and a trainer. He shudders.

“Gods, I detest this place,” he tells Ghost as he crawls through yet another damp pipeway behind them. “Fluke-things are… _ugh_.” He shudders deeply. Ahead of him, he sees them nod firmly as they walk along.

Reaching an area where Quirrel can finally stand up, they both slaughter a few more flukemons and then look at Ghost’s map again. Uselessly look at Ghost’s map. Ghost points to a blank area and taps twice; they can see their location since they are wearing the charm at the moment. He sighs. Wherever they are, it isn’t on the map. They are lost.

“We are completely lost.”

Ghost glares at him and then points and taps twice again.

“Yes, we know where we are, but we have no idea how to get back out of here!”

Ghost continues to glare at him, and then traces their finger along the map in what was presumably the path by which they have ended up in their current (completely lost) location.

“That does us no good. Unless you wish to go back and climb the elevator shaft instead?”

They shake their head and glare some more.

“I don’t care to try climbing it again either,” he snaps. “If I fall, I am in danger from more than those blasted nails that were left all over the damn place.”

Looking abashed, Ghost sighs and tucks the map away. They glare at the pipe they had just emerged from and then glare at the pipe to the west of them. Quirrel supposes it’s an improvement over glaring at him.

They look at him and sigh, then gesture helplessly at what are very obviously the only two choices. Quirrel shudders and covers his eyes for a few moments before saying, “Once more into the breach, my friend.”

The pipe emerges into another wider area where Quirrel can stand, but once again there isn’t any choice but forward or back the way they came. Groaning, he gestures to go on and then collapses to the ground, folding forward and putting his head in his hands. He feels Ghost rest their hand on his back and he leans against them.

“I am rather fed up with all of this,” he sighs.

Ghost huffs and rubs his back.

“I feel like I have been crawling for hours. The further we go without finding a way up and out, the longer I am going to have to keep crawling to get back _out_. My knees hurt, my hands hurt, and if it weren’t for the fact that I would likely end up completely disoriented and get sick as well as the need to leave the backpack, I would volunteer to roll up and let you push me.”

Ghost slips their arm under his kerchief to wrap it around his neck and pulls his face into their side. They rub gently for a few moments before withdrawing and taking his hand. They start massaging his palm, and he sags. He’s chilled as well, but doesn’t intend to mention that unless they try and hold more than his hand. It is likely they have deduced it and have reached the same conclusion he has: there is little to be done about it unless and until they can find an area to safely light a fire.

Which means they need to keep moving.

He watches them massage his hand for another moment, then sighs and draws their hand up to his mouth and kisses it. They squeeze his hand briefly and he lets go, dejectedly pointing forward and following them into the pipe.

Emerging from the other end of the pipe, Quirrel looks up and finally sees something besides a surge chamber. Ghost is bouncing around, chasing a flukefey, and he leaves them to it. Groaning, he pulls himself upright using the lip of the pipe and just stands there, swaying slightly. He’s at least 300 years old, surely he can whine a bit about his knees? He’s older than Ghost, at any rate. He could try calling them a whippersnapper, see what happens.

Maybe later, when he doesn’t feel quite so stiff. He will probably need to be able to react quickly.

Leaning against the wall, he watches as Ghost finally skewers the flukefey and it falls into the water. They turn to look at him and then come over to take his hand. He must look as wrung out as he feels, because they seem worried. He shakes he head and starts to tell them he is fine, decides against the lie and drops his head back against the wall.

“I feel _old_ ,” he whines. “My knees ache, my hands ache, my shell aches, I’m cold, and I’m stiff,” he continues, deciding to go all-in on the whining.

He feels them pat his hand and then pull on it hesitantly.

“The world has gone to pot, and things just aren’t as good as they used to be!” he gripes, getting into the spirit of it. “Just wait until you’re my age, then you’ll understand!”

Ghost snorts and firmly yanks his hand.

“No damn sympathy! What is wrong with the youth today? No respect for your elders! Why in my day—” and he cuts off with a shriek when Ghost Dives into the water, spraying muck and cold water everywhere.

Wiping himself off a bit, he shakes his head. He definitely needed to be able to react quickly. When he looks over at them, they are quivering with laughter. He smiles and then leans back against the wall and holds his arms out. He has absolutely no intention of kneeling again but wants a hug even if it will have to be quick. They cock their head a little and he starts to say something, but they figure it out and bounce up and then flap their wings and land in his arms.

Hugging them tightly he presses his face against the side of their head and then tips his face up to kiss them. They squeeze back and nestle into the side of his neck and sigh. Another brief squeeze and they push back, brushing their hand across his cheek before wriggling down. They are definitely aware he is chilled.

Quirrel looks up to the ledge above them and then beyond. The ceiling is relatively high, and it looks like this had been a service access point for this and a few other drainage pipes. There doesn’t appear to be a way out except through more pipes, but the ones just above appear to be more intact and larger.

Glancing down at Ghost he points up and says, “Why don’t we move up there? We might be able to light a fire for a little while, and I can get warmed up as well as eat.”

Ghost is nodding, and they leap into the air and flap their wings to make it to the ledge. He grins up at them like a fool. The wings are a joy and the beauty just a fringe benefit, but Quirrel is a sucker for the niceties in life and knows it. They wave down at him and he chuckles, then waves his hand to the side and says, “Shoo! I need room!”

Once they step back, he leaps up to join them.

* * *

Quirrel was right; there had been enough space to make a small fire, and once it was going it dried out the surrounding ledge enough that Quirrel was able to pull out one of the blankets to wrap around himself. He makes coffee instead of tea, the rich smell nicely overpowering the odor of damp around them. The warmth is wonderful, and he intends to enjoy it as long as possible. The only downside is that Ghost isn’t sitting with him, although he knows that it is necessary until they reach an area where either they decide to sleep and set up a larger fire and camp, or an area that is warmer in general.

At the moment, they are filling in the map again, adding details to other areas as well as the maze they just scrambled through. They shift between different layers, moving back and forth as well as up and down. He knows that their path was convoluted, but trying to decipher their map into a three-dimensional understanding is often beyond his abilities. Quirrel can manage mapping an area where it either goes up and down or stays on a flat surface, but the warren of caves that comprise Hallownest is both. He’s amazed they manage to maintain their map such that it is mostly on a single large piece of parchment instead of a book.

Finishing up, Ghost folds the map and tucks it away. They stand up and move over beside him, briefly touching his knee through the blanket and looking at him.

“I am feeling much better, thank you. I should be ready to move on once the fire finishes going out, I was just enjoying sitting and watching you.”

They duck their head, then reach out and touch his knee again. He reaches out and grasps their hand, squeezing it a little. They wrap their fingers around one of his and then just sit there, holding on.

Watching the fire die down, he sips the coffee. Ghost tugs his hand, and he looks over. They are pointing at the coffee, and he asks, “Did you want some?”

Handing the cup over at their nod, he warns them, “It doesn’t have any sugar in it.” They give him an exasperated look and he just grins.

Taking the cup, they hold it by the handle and take a few sips. They have both learned that unlike painkillers, caffeine seems to strongly affect them. They glance at the cup mournfully, take one more sip and reluctantly hand it back over.

“I believe the shop had decaffeinated grinds as well,” he says. “I’ll grab some when we get back, and we can mix you something that only has a little caffeine, or just brew the decaffeinated.”

At their sigh, he chuckles. “I thought you didn’t care for coffee or tea?”

Shrugging, they pull out the slate and write, “I hadn’t really had much coffee before, only tea. Not much tea either. They are social beverages, and I didn’t drink much anyhow.”

Quirrel sighs as they tuck the slate back away. He is still bitterly angry at some nebulous unknown bugs, but Ghost refuses to discuss it and he has told them he won’t push. They pat his knee. He has never said he wouldn’t be angry, and they haven’t asked him not to be.

Finishing up the coffee as the fire dies, Quirrel wipes the cup out and then stands up to fold the blanket. Handing it over to Ghost, he finishes cleaning up and packing the utensils away. Ghost stands beside him as he hands them items. Once he is done, he leans over, kisses them lightly, and rests his forehead on theirs before turning to stand up and strap into the backpack.

They decide to head down the larger pipe that runs off to the north rather than climbing up further into the maintenance areas. There isn’t any particular reasoning for it, as none of the paths lead in the direction Ghost wants to go. They are still firmly in an uncompleted area of the map and have a ways to go before they can make it back to the eastern side of the Waterways.

The pipe they choose starts out large enough for Quirrel to walk upright but tapers down after some side branches. It’s now of the extremely annoying size where he could walk if he hunched over or crouched, yet if he crawls, he’s left bitter because it is so close to being walkable. He can feel his mood going sour again.

They are also starting to run into an alarming number of fluke-whatever eggs, some of which have hatched into clinging, wriggling larvae. When Ghost slaughters them with their nail, they release a distressing amount of soul. He kills a few as well, simply to have the soul, and then indiscriminately afterwards because it means that many fewer fluke-ughs in the future.

Quirrel can tell they are approaching another open area ahead as the echoes shift. Ghost has heard it as well, and they both pick up the pace a little. Quirrel practically shoves his mask up the back end of their cloak when they stop suddenly, and he squawks a muffled “Hey!!” at them.

Ghost shifts to the side a little, and he pokes his head out of the pipe and promptly pulls it back in like a snail rejecting the world.

“No. I did not see that. It does not exist, that is a monstrosity. I refuse to accept that reality.”

He hears Ghost huff a quiet laugh as they step further into the room. He briefly considers letting them disappear into the horror, then decides he would rather have them around a bit longer. He leans out of the pipe — assiduously ignoring the _thing_ hanging in the middle of the room — and grabs them around the middle, hauling them back into the pipe. He narrowly avoids getting skewered, mostly due to Ghost’s reflexes and not his. He firmly pins them into his lap; they wriggle some before stopping. He has no misconceptions about having actually pinned them.

“Do you have any idea what that _is??_ ” he hisses.

They shake their head. He presumes they are glaring at him; he can’t see from behind them and chooses to believe they are going to listen to reason.

“It’s the source of all the eggs and fluke-things. _Gods_. We used to have to come down here and regularly clear them out; it was an effective use of trainees.” He shudders. “There was a special concoction we used. We would spray it all over the nest and eggs. It was a gel, and clung, and you know what the most important detail was?” They shake their head, and he pretends that they aren’t exasperated. “ _It was extremely flammable_. You could burn away _everything_ , leaving only the masonry. It was _glorious_.”

He sighs in futile fondness before glancing back at the end of the pipe.

“I’ve never seen one so large.”

Relaxing his arms, he groans and leans his head on theirs. “We are going to kill it the hard way, aren’t we.”

They huff and nod.

“Fire would be a far more satisfying method of eradication.”

Ghost snorts and nods enthusiastically.

“Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

Quirrel gives them a very brief rundown of what is going to happen in all of its disgusting glory. The plan is for Quirrel to do his thing around the edges of the room, taking down the flukefey as they are… disgorged. He can usually take a flukefey down with one hit, but knows they show up in groups. Ghost is going to focus on the mother, killing her as fast as they can.

It starts out well enough, but somewhere around the sixth or eighth flying flukefey one manages to latch onto Quirrel’s back momentarily. He is down in the water, and Ghost cuts it off immediately. He can still feel the ring of toothmarks where it had started to dig in.

The next couple of flukefey go relatively smoothly, and Ghost has gone back to being murder in motion. He loses track of one of the flukefey from the pair that had been spat out from the top. As he is clinging to the wall, desperately seeking it out, it shoots up from under him and slams into his chest. Grunting at the sudden hit, he starts falling and manages to flip over onto the nearby ledge. He can feel it latch on and start to embed itself, and frantically shoves at it.

Managing to partially dislodge it, he shoves it as far to the side as he can and then slashes through it with his nail. The angle is atrocious, and he can tell he has managed to nick his shell as well, but the damn thing is off of him. He hits it again and whirls around in time to slash through the one coming up behind him. Then he drops down onto the one whirling around Ghost as they launch another Shriek at the flukemarm. She spews two more flukefey and then collapses with a disgustingly flatulent wail. Ghost leaps after the one on the other side of the room, and Quirrel jumps up to the next platform to get the one targeting him.

Gasping, he crouches into a defensive stance and surveys the room to make sure the damn things are truly gone. Ghost splashes down beneath his ledge, and when he doesn’t see any more, he relaxes and stands up.

Chest aching, he looks down at his side where he managed to slash himself. It’s a lovely gash, but thankfully shallow. It’s still bleeding freely, so he needs to get it covered up. He hears Ghost leap up behind him as he attempts to look at his chest next. His eyes aren’t really placed for that to be a successful attempt. It is definitely starting to ache, so he presses his hand against it and then holds it up to see if it is bleeding as well. As he expected, it is, covering his hand in a blueish sticky mess. He looks down at Ghost, who has gone absolutely still, looking at the disaster he presents.

“Well, that could likely have gone a bit better, hmm?” he observes.

Ghost has started shaking a bit. He wonders if his chest injury is worse than he thought and puts his hand back up to feel around. It is definitely bleeding nicely, and no doubt looks quite dramatic, but none of the punctures are deep. The flukefey didn’t manage to do more than bite him; he removed it before it could dig in with its latching ring of teeth and fully embed itself. He probes one of the larger toothmarks from the side that had dug in further and is reassured that his assessment is correct.

Dropping his hand from his chest, he turns and takes a closer look at the gash in his side. While far less dramatic overall, it is actually the worse injury. He pokes it and flinches at the give in his shell. That is going to _hurt_ later. He is going to need to reinforce it as well.

Looking back at Ghost, they have wrapped their arms around their abdomen and look miserable.

“Ghost!”

He drops down in front of them and takes their shoulders. He has now gotten blood onto their cloak; he sighs and hopes it rinses off since they can’t just take it off to wash it. Pulling them closer, he rests his forehead on theirs. “It isn’t that bad, love, just rather messy. The deepest cut is the one on my side.”

Sitting back up, he presses his clean hand against the side of their face. “I can’t see the cuts on my chest,” he says softly, “but I can feel they aren’t deep. I would appreciate help cleaning them out if you are willing, although it should wait until we get out of here.”

They nod hesitantly, and it occurs to him that with their vehement avoidance of touching, they likely haven’t helped someone deal with injuries very frequently. “There isn’t much that needs done but it does help to be able to see what one is doing. Why don’t we head back to that last large branch and take the southern pipeway instead. We can go until we find a relatively safe spot to sleep.”

Ghost nods, and he squeezes their shoulder. “I will be fine. Definitely sore after sleeping, but after all the crawling and fighting I was going to be sore regardless.”

They nod again and continue to stand there and look miserable.

He straightens up after a moment and holds his arm out. “I won’t break if you hug me, love; it’ll just be quite messy,” he says with a smile.

They squeeze themself briefly before slowly stepping into his lap and leaning their head over his shoulder. Shuddering, they wrap their arms around his head and cling, standing awkwardly to avoid touching his chest.

“Are you worried about getting messy?” he asks quietly. When they shake their head, he pulls them into a firm hug.

* * *

It takes an hour to get back to the branch Quirrel had suggested they take, by which time his chest has stopped bleeding and instead started hurting. His side is still oozing, but not much. It hurts worse. His impulse is to stop and bandage everything up, but considering the muck that is all over, any bandage he applies wouldn’t stay clean, and would cause more harm than good considering the bleeding has mostly stopped.

Ghost suggests that he wait here while they go scout ahead and see if the pipe is at all promising, or simply dead ends. He reluctantly agrees, torn between having them disappear ahead of him and the thought of having to crawl back out if it doesn’t pan out. He hasn’t waited long before they come back and tell him they have finally found the bench that had been marked on the map. He hasn’t looked at the map in a while and wonders how under the stars they ended up _here_.

Groaning as he stands up, he stretches a bit before kneeling back down to crawl after them down the pipe.

They are waiting for him at the end of the pipe, staring up at a corner of the wall. He hears the chirping of a belfly and groans again.

“Are you going to poke this one too?” he asks, resigned.

Ghost startles a little, then glances over to where the chirping is emerging from before shaking their head. The point up at the wall, and with a sigh he looks closer. As he expected, it is full of cracks and fractures; they usually don’t show fascination with a wall unless it is something that can be destroyed.

“Is this something you are going to break now, or later?” He is so _tired_ and just wants to _sit_. The bench sounded absolutely marvelous, why must they stop here?

Looking up at him, they shake their head and then point across to another ledge that is part of a broken maintenance shaft. He sighs in relief. They pull out the map and shove an orange marker onto it before putting it away, and then hop across and wait for him to follow.

* * *

The bench turned out to be a severe disappointment as far as being somewhere reasonable to rest. Quirrel nearly wept in frustration. He sat down anyhow, and Ghost sat with him, sliding into his side. It was only a short break, but he nearly fell asleep despite the angle.

Once they had recovered some, they moved on to a more hospitable location. Quirrel had started a fire and is now boiling water in a couple of different pots. One is for an herbal tea, the second is for food as well as to cool off and use to clean his injuries after the meal.

Ghost leans against him as they both finish dinner, and he pulls his arm out from under the blanket to wrap around them. Sighing, he squeezes them and kisses their horn before saying, “Let’s get this over with.”

He pulls out the first aid kit as well as the repair materials and explains to Ghost what he needs them to do. He also has them look over the ring of toothmarks that the first flukefey had dug into his carapace, but those are mostly just scratches and can be ignored.

Cleaning and bandaging his wounds is every bit as much fun as he had expected. At least he knows that the wounds had bled well enough at the time that the danger is more from surface exposure, and so they just need to soak them clean and then get them dry enough to patch. The gash in the side of his shell is more of a problem, and Ghost has never performed a shell repair before. The resulting patch is messy but sound, and he can file it down to be smoother at a later time.

Content that things are as handled as they are going to get, he grabs Ghost’s hands when they start fussing at the bandages again.

“ _Stop_ , you’ll just start the bleeding again. I am _fine_.”

Leaning over, he kisses them.

“Let’s go to sleep. I’ll let you pull them off in the morning, they should be satisfactorily crusty and disgusting by then.”

Ghost huffs and yanks their hands out of his, placing them square in the middle of his mask and playfully shoving him backward. Grabbing them around the middle with a laugh, he pulls them along with him as he topples backwards.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo… It should not be a shock to _anyone_ that sooner or later these two are going to get their groove on, so to speak. I personally find switching gears in a story from what this has been — not afraid to deal with it but nothing explicit to date (hence the “M” rating even though my personal thoughts are that so far this has been “T”) — into something containing explicit content very mentally jarring. The _situation itself_ might flow perfectly fine, but the mindshift into teh pron can be enough to throw me out of the story.
> 
> I fully intend to write said explicit content. There won’t be much of it as Ghost is asexual, and I certainly won’t inflict it on my beta reader (proofreading your mom’s porn has to be beyond weird, and I am certain being in their mid-20’s and enjoying porn of their own doesn’t make one whit of difference). But I am curious how anyone else would prefer I handle it (or even wants to see it).
> 
> My original thoughts were to put up another work in this series to contain said explicit content and then simply put the appropriate scenes into it. I would then link from the main story using “ . . . ” to make a hyperlink instead of one of the horizontal bars, such that it wouldn’t be stylistically all that much different from how I’ve been handling transitions and cut time already. At the end of the other piece, I would have a link back to the originating chapter that would pop you back to where you were on the page. I haven’t decided whether to have the whole chapter within the other work or just the explicit content plus a little bit of transition so that it at least _almost_ reads independently.
> 
> Am I overthinking it? Is anyone else even interested in the explicit stuff? I have no idea! My [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nurgletwh) is the same as my username here, and I’ll turn on anonymous messages for now so no one has to admit anything, but I would appreciate feedback!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Bug biology diversion!
> 
> When it is in a closed circulatory system, no matter what it is based on (copper, iron, other) it is considered ‘blood.’ If the circulatory system is open, it’s ‘hemolymph.’ Real-world pillbugs have an open circulatory system, but they also aren’t 1.5 m (5 ft) tall. There are a wide variety of reasons that bugs can’t get that big in our world, circulation and structural support being two of them.
> 
> There is already in-game evidence that some bugs have actual internal skeletons in addition to their exoskeletons, so I have felt no need to pre-justify that one. It’s creepy as fuck to see though! And there is no acceptable explanation for The Hunter’s body form.
> 
> There is no particular reason I decided Quirrel is 1.4 m (4 ft 7 in) tall, other than it makes Ghost 0.7 m (2 ft 4 in) tall — excluding their horns — which is the perfect size for a destructive gremlin in my opinion.
> 
> * * *
> 
> What may or may not constitute TMI, but I hadn’t ever been in a relationship prior to meeting my future spouse in college. As such, he had the dubious honor of being the first person I kissed as well as the first person I was ever around who had an erection directed my way. I was clueless and ended up with my hand on his pants, and I am absolutely positive that he wasn’t expecting my absolutely shocked “I’m sorry!” as I jumped back.
> 
> Props to him, it made him laugh and he told me it meant he was feeling good and I certainly shouldn’t apologize.
> 
> Additional props to him, despite his rather tacky lines he never pressured me and it was at least another month or two before things went further than heavy petting.
> 
> At least I didn’t flop down onto it?


	6. When will Loneliness be Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is laughter in the Royal Waterways!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thank you to everyone who gave me feedback! Hopefully things work out when I get there, I am very nervous about the whole thing!  
>   
> 

#### Quirrel

* * *

Quirrel’s body is screaming at him.

It has been an awfully long time since he has felt aches into the very depths of his soul. Training and practice in the Guards often left one feeling this way the next morning, with a side benefit of someone dumping you out of your bunk if you didn’t happen to move fast enough. Thankfully, he is sleeping on the ground so there isn’t any further down to go. Depending on their mood, he wouldn’t put shoving him out of bed onto the ground past Ghost, except for the fact that the one time they had slept in a bed when he was around they had a) sadly been in a _separate_ bed, and b) the bed had been so pillowy it likely would have been far more trouble than it was worth.

Staring at the ceiling in the tunnel, he marinates in his pain.

Perhaps if he doesn’t move one of the flukemons will come and eat him. Unfortunately, that would probably a) hurt far worse than he currently does, b) mean that a fluke-thing is _touching_ him, and c) make Ghost cry.

He is on his back. He dislikes sleeping on his back, but when he had tried sleeping on his side, his carapace had ended up flexing in such a way that it had made the slash in his side throb. Sleeping on his front is better than sleeping on his back, except for when his chest has been used as a chew toy.

Flexing to curl forward in preparation for sitting up centers the agony into his chest. Stifling a groan, he stops moving and lies back down. He hears movement and hopes it is Ghost and not a fluke-thing. He has rejected death by fluke-whatever as a solution to his current predicament, therefore if it _is_ a fluke-thing he will have to move and he would rather not.

Ghost’s face leans over him, and he is thankful.

“Good morning, love,” he says as he reaches up and touches the side of their head.

“Love you also,” they sign before leaning over to kiss him.

Quirrel curls his fingers around their horn and tilts his head back, deepening the kiss with a sigh. His face doesn’t hurt, so it feels lovely.

Ghost captures his hand as they stand up, holding it between theirs. He curls his fingers around their hand and watches them. His eyes don’t hurt either, so this is also a pleasant activity.

“I don’t suppose there are any hot springs relatively close?” he asks.

Ghost shakes their head.

Quirrel sighs and then brings their hand to his mouth and kisses it.

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

Dropping their hand, he rolls to his uninjured side and starts to shove himself up. Ghost moves alongside of him and helps him get the rest of the way up.

Smiling at them, he signs “Thank you.”

They lean their head against his mask for a moment, then look down and touch the dressings on his chest.

“Yes, we need to clean them up and change those out. I know we left some boiled water in one of the covered pots, but we should—”

Stopping when they step to the side and point over at where the fire was, he sees that they have been busy while he slept. There is a small fire rebuilt from the embers, and the tripod has been set back over it. The covered pot they had left overnight is set to the side, and he sees that they have dug out the other pot and re-rigged up their filter to strain water into it.

“You have been busy!”

Ghost shrugs and steps over to the backpack. They dig out the first aid supplies and hand them to him, and then bring the pot of cooled water over and sit down in front of him. They look at him expectantly.

Opening up the first aid kit, he explains, “We are going to have to soak these off. The goal will be to get them damp enough to pull the dressings off without restarting the bleeding. I should have enough clean pads to replace these, but I believe we will exhaust the last of my tape putting the new ones on. I have adhesive, but it comes undone when it gets wet, so it won’t work well down here. If they still need to be covered when we remove them later today, we are going to have to wrap bandaging around my thorax to hold them in place, including a bit of padding to keep it from slipping around. That will _not_ be fun, which is why we need to be careful now and not restart the bleeding.”

Ghost nods.

“Once we have these pads off, we will need to wash them well and then re-boil them and let them dry. I don’t have nearly enough pads for covering so many separate small wounds! We can trim a strip off of one side of the silk pad, which should give us plenty of material for new ones. It will need washed and boiled as well, but they can be mixed in with the ones we are getting ready to pull off. Silk is nicely absorbent and makes for good wound dressings, but it is usually too expensive to justify using as wound coverings. This is likely spider silk, which is even better.”

Pulling out a small bottle of bright orange ointment, he continues, “This is honey, turmeric, and iodide mixed into fat, although it doesn’t like to stay mixed, so it needs thoroughly stirred before using. I obviously don’t have a lot of it, but considering where we are, I think using it would be prudent to inhibit infection. It will go further if we spread it onto the dressing rather than trying to spread it on me.”

Ghost nods again, then points at the pot of water.

Quirrel sighs and says, “It would probably be best if I laid back down. I can help peel the edges of the tape up, then you can just dribble the water onto the edges of the dressing and let it soak in. Once they have loosened, we can pull them off and I can inspect them. That’s what the two mirrors in the first aid kit are for, so I can see places that I can’t normally. Having an extra set of hands will be lovely for the help.”

He leans over and kisses their forehead, then lays on his side and rolls onto his back. Resigned, he sighs and starts picking at the edges of the tape as Ghost puts water into a cup and then leans over to dribble it onto his chest.

* * *

It takes them around 30 minutes to de-gum Quirrel’s chest and apply new dressings and bandage tape, and then another hour to wash and then boil the dirty dressings as well as the newly cut ones while Quirrel eats breakfast. They string them up around the outside of the fire and are now sitting and watching them dry as Ghost fidgets. Apparently fed up with the waiting, they pull out the book they had been having him read to them, shove the pad into his lap (avoiding his chest), and hand him the book.

With a long-suffering sigh, he crosses his legs around them and kisses their horn, and then begins to read aloud.

* * *

Quirrel ends up reading quite a bit longer than strictly necessary for the dressings to dry. The story had hit an action-packed section followed directly by a smut-packed section and Ghost smacked his leg when he tried to put it away. They smacked him again at his educational attempt of “it doesn’t actually work that way.” Without the distraction of education attempts, to his embarrassment he ended up needing to shift Ghost to the side about halfway through the chapter, and they started shaking with giggles but poked him again when he tried to stop.

Reaching the end of the chapter, he is both relieved and frustrated at needing to stop. He hands the book over to Ghost as they stand up. They lean in and press their forehead against his mask as they stow it, then pat his cheek and step back to give him room to stand. The morning activities have helped him loosen back up, relieving the stiffness from the awkward crawling of the day before. He stretches a little more and then folds up the pad.

Ghost has gathered up the hanging dressings and looks at him, so he sets aside the pad and shows them how to fold the dressings into a couple of sizes so that they are ready to use when needed. His first aid kit is full again, and he will need to figure out what to do when he is done with the dressings he is currently using — they aren’t going to all fit into the kit now. He could probably remove the ointment and backup adhesive from the kit and Ghost could store the dressings, although they should probably test that in a non-critical way first. There has been no evidence of void contaminating non-liquid materials, but since it will be directly against an open wound in a way that could lead to something seeping into his body it would be prudent to test on a small wound.

Actually, they could store one or two of the dressings now and he could use it on one of the wounds the next time he needs to change the dressings and have a comparative study. He explains his thoughts to Ghost, who looks dubious but stores two of the dressing pads.

Finishing up the packing, Quirrel looks at the backpack in mild dread. He sighs and sits down to strap it on rather than trying to swing it around onto his back. Ghost steps up beside him and leans against his side as he cinches the straps. Turning, he gives them a brief kiss and a one-armed hug before standing up.

They travel through the Waterways, killing a variety of fluke-things, pillflips, and belflies — technically watching belflies kill themselves, he supposes — until it is time for Quirrel to eat lunch. Ghost hasn’t escaped injury, especially since they are doing their level best to keep everything away from Quirrel, and they join him in eating as they review the map.

He doesn’t particularly want to know, but asks “Where are we trying to get to again?”

Ghost points to a room at the far end of the Waterways. They have only made it approximately 1/3 of the distance from where they slept to where they are going, which means they will likely be camping again before reaching this bug he has been threatened with. He isn’t sure whether to be relieved or not, although the opportunity to heal his current injuries further before triggering a migraine sounds nice.

“We won’t make it there today then,” he says.

Ghost shakes their head, and he continues, “I was thinking I could take one or two of the pills prior to meeting your friend.”

Ghost looks up at him and then nods.

“If I do so about ten or fifteen minutes before we get there, the effects won’t have started yet. It takes twenty to thirty minutes for those to be noticeable, so I won’t be too addled when we first meet. I suspect that I won’t have much time to say anything, but I also don’t want to be intoxicated while traveling.” He thinks a moment and then adds, “If this _doesn’t_ trigger a migraine, we are going to be done traveling for a couple of hours after I take the pills simply for the drug to wear off.” Sighing, he adds, “I know you think I know them, but if I _don’t_ then I am not going to be making a good impression.”

They turn to face him better and sign, “You know him, you not…” They hesitate, stumbling over the signs before continuing, “You not remember. I not unsure.”

Quirrel nods, and they finish lunch and continue on their way.

* * *

Nothing of any particular interest happens as they travel, unless the continued presence of pillflips, flukemon, and belflies are considered interesting. They stop once or twice to verify that the bandages and dressings are staying put and not getting excessively dirty, and use the last of the tape on a couple that are falling off. Quirrel had been hoping to be able to reserve the tape for the couple of toothmarks that are deeper and he suspects will still need to be covered tomorrow, but there isn’t much to be done about it.

As it nears time to get some sleep, they start watching for suitable areas to camp. They have reached a more orderly part of the Waterways, which is nice for Quirrel’s posture since he doesn’t have to crawl, but also means there aren’t any higher spots that get up and out of the damp. Locating a relatively small ledge after an hour or so of looking, they decide to stop. There is no guarantee they will find somewhere better.

The ledge is too small for them to keep the fire going while they sleep, which is unfortunate. Building the fire against the back wall, Quirrel hopes to warm the masonry up sufficiently that it will retain some heat that he can use for sleeping. He will need to shift position later since it will be far too hot for him to sleep on initially.

Checking his wounds after they soak the dressings off, he decides that they should replace them while he sleeps. Since he is going to be sleeping on his back again, gravity and the ointment should hold the dressings mostly in place. The wounds seem to be healing nicely and are definitely far less sore than they were when he woke up.

Ghost helps him apply the ointment to the dressings and he lays back for Ghost to stick them in place. Once they have finished, they lean over to kiss him, and he pulls them in closer when they apparently didn’t intend to do it properly.

Huffing a laugh, they lean in to give him their full attention and he hums his appreciation.

* * *

Quirrel feels significantly better when he wakes up. The ring of punctures on his chest is merely a bit sore, and the gash in his side aches but is much improved. He pokes at the dressings to see if they are stuck, and when he determines they will stay mostly in place he rolls to his side and sits up. Ghost isn’t on the ledge, but he can hear splashing down the tunnel and snorts. They are probably preemptively clearing out the path they intend to take.

He isn’t used to being coddled; historically, _he_ has been the protector in his relationships.

It is an interesting experience.

If someone had asked him beforehand, he likely would have said it would make him feel frustrated. He suspects that if Ghost had unilaterally decided he needed protected, he would have been. It probably says something about him and how he has approached his prior relationships that the only approach to an imbalance in ability that came to his mind is for one partner to be the protector, and the other the protectee. Ghost simply assumes that he can take care of himself until either he demonstrates otherwise or asks for help. He has noticed that it makes him far more willing to not only accept but ask for assistance when he needs it.

The splashing is returning, and Ghost appears at the end of the tunnel. He smiles and waves, and they return the greeting before dashing over and hopping up to the ledge.

“Trying to save me some trouble?” he asks them with humor.

They snort and nod, then pat his shoulder.

Snaking his arm around them, he pulls them over for a hug and then kisses the side of their head before letting them go.

They kiss his cheek before backing up, and then point at his chest and ask, “Injury good?”

He nods and replies, “It feels much better today. Let’s get these off and take a look. We can rinse them out with the water we have, and when we camp tonight we can clean them more thoroughly as well as boil them. I am hopeful that the only ones that might need covered are the two down at the bottom of my chest where it dug in deeper. Without the tape, I will choose to leave them uncovered if at all possible.”

Ghost nods, and they get to work.

* * *

Quirrel is standing in a maintenance room where they have just killed a lone sentry. He has no idea why she was there, but Ghost told him the sentries seem to wander off and end up in the oddest places.

Pointing at his hip pack, Ghost signs, “Please take now, migraine come.”

Taking a deep breath, he looks away and stares at the wall. He feels Ghost lean against his hip, and he rests his hand on their head briefly before moving it to absent-mindedly caress their horn and the side of their head.

“This is extremely difficult,” he whispers.

Ghost nods, and they wrap their arms around his leg and hug him hard.

Shuddering, he pulls out the little packet of pills and takes two, then drinks from the canteen. Putting the packet away, he collapses to the ground and grabs Ghost, hugging them tightly and burying his face into the side of their head. They wrap their arms around his neck and return the forceful hug, moving their hand to rub the back of his head when he starts crying.

* * *

It takes him longer to recover and get a handle on his emotions than they had planned for. He isn’t truly feeling the effects of the drug, but he can tell he is relaxing as they drop down the last shaft. He recognizes the odor of dung and snickers.

Perhaps he is feeling the effects of the drug.

Ghost pats his hand and shakes their head, and he can’t really fault them for that. Giggling again, he takes their hand and lets them lead him into the chamber of poo. Looking around, he sees familiar balls of dung, which means a dung beetle lives here. He doesn’t recall knowing any dung beetles, but memory blocks would tend to make a bug forgetful, wouldn’t they?

Snickering at his wit, he lets go of Ghost’s hand and turns to look at one of the smaller dung balls next to them, leaning over to poke it and giggling.

Gods save him, he’s turning into a buffoon. Attempting to get a grip on his self-control, he stands up and turns to Ghost, who has turned to face him, their arms crossed. They shake their head again, and for a being with no eyes they manage to very clearly get across the fact that they are rolling their eyes at him as they turn back and head across the room. Snickering again and embarrassed by the fact, he starts to follow them.

When Ghost reaches the middle of the room, the dung beetle in question pops their head out of the floor behind them and laughs. Quirrel feels his head start ringing, little sparkles dancing at the edges of his vision.

It seems Ghost was right about the migraine.

The dung beetle is facing away from Quirrel, and Ghost turns around to face them as the beetle pulls their arms out of the ground to rest them on the floor, not emerging completely. Quirrel feels faint.

“Ahhh!” The dung beetle’s voice booms around the room, hauntingly familiar, and the sparkles grow brighter. “Little warrior, you have returned! I’m glad to see you again, I don’t have many visitors.”

Ghost waves, and the dung beetle laughs again. “You seem to be doing well, then.”

They nod, and then look up to meet Quirrel’s eyes. Petrified, he simply stands there. The dung beetle turns around to see what Ghost is looking at and inhales sharply before whispering, “It cannot be.”

Quirrel is trembling, still staring at Ghost, unable to drop his gaze to meet the dung beetle’s eyes.

“ _Quirrel!!_ My friend, it has been so long!”

The beetle pops out of the ground, and Quirrel finally meets his gaze. The sparkling lights in his vision have started to spiral around the edges, moving inward; he can feel the pain blooming as he gasps, “Ogrim?”

Ogrim’s face rapidly changes from ecstatic to frantic as Quirrel grabs his own head and groans as he collapses to the floor, vision washing out into a throbbing rainbow of flashes.

* * *

Ogrim scrambles over to Quirrel’s side, frantically waving his claws back and forth as if unsure whether or not to pick him up.

Ghost dashes over and waves to get his attention, then signs, “You know sign?”

Ogrim goes absolutely still, before murmuring, “You can talk.”

Ghost nods and then signs, “Yes. He show me sign. He—”

“The king said…” Ogrim starts trembling and Ghost tosses their hands up.

“You understand sign?” they sign.

“It has been a very long time,” Ogrim whispers, “but I did know sign language.” He shivers, and then looks down at Quirrel again and places a claw on his shoulder. “I had known quite a bit before, but he taught us all when he joined.”

Ogrim looks back up at Ghost and quietly asks, “What happened to him?”

Ghost sighs, then signs, “I not know good sign. He not know, he forget here. He remember, he migraine. He sleep now, you help me help him? Please?”

Ogrim stares at Ghost for a few moments. “The king said the Hollow Knight was empty, with no mind; that they could not speak.”

Ghost huffs. They point at Quirrel.

Ogrim hesitates before looking back to Quirrel. He brushes his claw across the top of his kerchief before looking at his chest. “Ah, my friend. You never did like the flukefey, and they definitely never did like you.”

Scooping Quirrel up, he carries him over to the drop down into his den. “Come along, little Vessel. It seems I was wrong about many things and should have listened to my heart when she told me to pay attention.” He sags as he turns around and nods to the floor. “Go ahead, I will follow you down.”

* * *

Ogrim places Quirrel in his bed and Ghost helps him remove the backpack. They pull out the slate and give him a more detailed explanation of what Quirrel needs, a short description of the memory issues, and an extraordinarily brief mention of why he is back in Hallownest. The more Ghost writes, the more Ogrim deflates.

Quirrel moans, and Ghost puts the slate away. They go over to the backpack and dig out the eyecovers, and then hop up on the bed to sit at his head. Ogrim startles when they remove his mask but takes it when they hold it out to him after looking around. They cover his eyes and tie the pads in place, then set their hands on his temples above his eyes. He shivers and then relaxes. Ghost starts gently rubbing his forehead with their thumbs.

Ogrim watches for a few minutes, then sits at Quirrel’s side and gently takes his hand.

“We were good friends,” he whispers sadly. “I loved his sense of humor, his tendency to get into everything. He could bring a group together and make them a team.”

Ghost watches him, listening.

Ogrim looks at Quirrel’s chest and sighs. Continuing to whisper, he says, “He really did have a talent for finding flukefeys as well as the flukemarms. He also had an unholy glee at setting them on fire.” He chuckles quietly. “That was merely an extension of his love of setting anything he could on fire. I suspect he volunteered for many of the fluke hunts simply because it meant he could set things on fire and not be chastised for it.”

He goes quiet for several minutes, simply watching Quirrel.

Looking up at Ghost, he hesitates. They cock their head, and he sighs.

“I suppose I know this answer, but was the Pale King fundamentally wrong about what the Hollow Knight was?”

Ghost nods, and Ogrim turns away, bowing his head. Shortly after, he starts shaking as he quietly cries.

* * *

Ogrim cries for a long time, never leaving Quirrel’s side, never letting go of his hand. Ghost simply sits and watches, waiting, keeping their hands on Quirrel’s temples and softly rubbing with their thumbs.

Wiping at his face with his other claw, Ogrim finally turns back to glance at Quirrel. Looking at Ghost, he shakes his head and asks softly, “Does he remember being in the Palace Guard?”

Ghost nods, then briefly pulls one hand up to wobble it side-to-side.

Ogrim snorts. “I take it his memory is full of holes, and doesn’t come back in coherent pieces?”

Ghost bobbles their head side-to-side.

Shaking his head, Ogrim wipes his face one last time and looks back down to Quirrel. Smiling fondly, he quietly tells them, “It would have to be, if he doesn’t remember me or the others. He was young, but extremely talented. His last two years in the Guard were spent training with us, in preparation for being Knighted, although he spent some time with Lurien and his Watcher’s Knights. Lurien taught him how to use soul, and he went from being so fast you could barely see him to being able to near-instantaneously leap wherever he wanted to be. The younger trainees swore he could teleport.”

Touching Quirrel’s shoulder, Ogrim whispers, “I knew we had lost him when he came back from the assignment to Monomon. Whatever threat she had received that warranted a guard of our level, I was never told. But the light in his eyes was unmistakable, his enthusiasm for what he had seen while guarding her unmatched.” He chuckles again. “Dryya was convinced Monomon had somehow seduced him, and refused to accept that he had instead been seduced by knowledge.”

Ogrim scoffs. “To be fair to Dryya, he did have _quite_ the reputation and I am certain that if Monomon had been even the slightest bit interested in—”

Quirrel shifts slightly and murmurs, “You know very well that she and Lurien were exclusive partners. Dryya was oddly blind for someone who was in a shared relationship with a mobile tree.”

* * *

Quirrel’s head is ringing and he’s nauseated. The only plus is that the pain is manageable, so the drugs are obviously working. He had slept through most of it last time.

“Quirrel!” Ogrim murmurs, excited.

Quirrel flinches, and Ogrim stops talking. Ogrim hadn’t said his name _loudly_ , but it’s Ogrim. Anything above a whisper tends to be resounding.

He gently squeezes Ogrim’s claw and sighs.

“It’s ok, my friend,” Quirrel whispers. “I know quiet isn’t your forté.”

Ogrim chuckles softly, and Quirrel gasps at the familiarity. His breathing hitches and he clenches Ogrim’s claw. The eyecovers are catching most of his tears. He feels Ghost’s hands shift their rhythm, and he reaches up to touch their arm. Remembering what happened last time, he traces up their arm until he finds the side of their head and then rests his hand against the side of their face.

He feels Ogrim shift and then lift his hand up to hold it between his claws. He giggles and then catches his breath, hiccups, and starts crying again. Ogrim starts rubbing his hand, and he can feel the concern radiating off of him. His brain dishes up a vision of Ogrim covered in glitter, light bouncing off of him in every direction, and he giggles again.

He feels Ghost shift, and they turn their head to nuzzle his hand. The only warning he gets is a small snort, then they gently bite his hand.

Startled, he yelps and draws his hand back.

“Why did you do that?!” he whimpers. “It wasn’t very nice, I’m incapacitated!”

Whispering, Ogrim says, “Yes, and by more than the migraine I am guessing.” He can hear the laughter under the whisper.

“I will have you know,” he whispers back, “that I took a highly touted, very well-known painkiller!” Quirrel giggles again. “But it has some side effects.”

Chuckling quietly, Ogrim murmurs, “So I have heard.” He pulls Quirrel’s hand against his chest. “You should try and sleep before you say something truly silly. It is good to see you, Quirrel. It will be even better to see you upright and sober.”

“Hmmm. Wise words from a fellow round bug.”

Quirrel is quiet for a few minutes, then suddenly asks Ogrim, “Have you ever covered yourself in glitter?”

* * *

Quirrel wakes up, which means he must have fallen asleep. He moves his hand up to his face and touches the eyecovers. He feels Ghost shift, and they brush a kiss against his forehead. He hums softly and touches the side of their head, tracing their horn.

“How long was I asleep this time?” he quietly asks.

Ghost taps their thumb on his forehead four times.

“Is Ogrim still here?”

One tap, but Ogrim doesn’t say anything.

“Is he asleep?”

Another tap. He has no idea what sleep cycle Ogrim is on, deep underground like this for so many years. When it had been thriving, Hallownest had only managed to maintain wake/sleep cycles that were synchronized due to a concerted effort and mass delusions. For all he knows, they dropped in on Ogrim in the middle of his sleep cycle. He is fairly certain his own sleep/wake rhythm is no longer related to what the sun is doing, and he has absolutely no idea what Ghost’s biology does when left to its own devices.

Ghost probably doesn’t know either.

He wonders if Ogrim will ever let him live down the glitter question, and figures the answer is no. He supposes that is what friends are for, even if you haven’t seen them in 300 or so years.

Cupping Ghost’s horn briefly, he moves his hands to the eyecovers, lifting them up slightly to test the light level. When it doesn’t cause pain, he pulls them down to the middle of his face and shifts his head to glance around the room. He sighs — Ogrim has gone all-in on the dung. He’d only ever done that when he was distressed, before. Considering what has happened, ‘distressed’ is likely the understatement of the last 300 years.

Rolling to his side and then sitting up, he unties the eyecovers and removes them. He can hear Ogrim softly snoring and glances behind him. He smiles and turns to Ghost.

“Thank you.”

Ghost nods, and he leans over to kiss their cheek. They huff and reach up, pull him down for a deeper kiss, and discover why he hadn’t leaned over further in the first place as he overbalances and topples into their lap. Laughing quietly, he reaches up and snags them around the middle. He can feel their laughter and pulls them around in front of him where they flop onto their side facing him. He rotates a little so that they are face to face, albeit upside down to each other.

“It was late afternoon when we arrived,” he says quietly. “You should definitely try and get some sleep, and I’ll see if I can as well.”

Placing his hand on the top of their head and leaning in, he kisses the bottom of their chin and they snort quietly. Returning the gesture, they kiss his chin and then move up to his mandibles, and they exchange a deeper kiss until both of them are giggling at the ridiculous position.

Ogrim’s den is warm, so they elect to leave the blankets put away. Rearranging themselves to a more traditional position, Quirrel rests his hand on Ghost’s abdomen and places his forehead against the base of their horn as they lay on their back. He figures he will have troubles getting back to sleep, but hadn’t accounted for the soporific effects of the warmth, relative dimness, and distantly familiar gentle rhythm of Ogrim’s snores. As Ghost falls asleep — their breathing slowing to nearly nonexistent — Quirrel drops off as well.

* * *

As expected, no one’s sleep cycles match up. Quirrel startles awake at a soft noise, but Ghost remains soundly asleep. He looks up to find Ogrim watching him. He is essentially in the same position he fell asleep in, although either he tucked closer to Ghost or they had wiggled over. Barring dreams, they don’t tend to move much while asleep, so it was probably him.

Ogrim cocks his head and gestures at the two of them, his question fairly obvious. Quirrel figures the answer should be damn obvious as well, but considering Ogrim hasn’t been around a Vessel who isn’t hiding what they are, he supposes it could be confusing.

Ghost will likely wake up when he moves his hand, and they will definitely wake up when he speaks, so he doesn’t bother with trying to let them sleep. They seem to mostly follow a sleep schedule for his benefit, and certainly don’t need nearly as much of it.

“Good morning, Ogrim,” he says.

Ghost startles, their hands coming up and grabbing his where it lays on their abdomen, squeezing hard. Quirrel rubs their side with his thumb while they get oriented, watching Ogrim.

“And a good morning to you as well, Quirrel. Are you well?” Ogrim asks.

Quirrel nods and Ghost sits up, still gripping his hand. They glance around and meet his gaze, then look up at Ogrim.

Ogrim hesitates, then looks at Ghost and asks, “Did you sleep well, too?”

Ghost nods, then squeezes Quirrel’s hand and lets go.

As Quirrel sits up, Ogrim quietly asks Ghost, “Do you have a name?”

They nod and look over to Quirrel, who says, “Their name is Ghost.”

Ogrim kneels on the floor by his bed so that he is at eye level with them. “It is a pleasure to learn your name, Ghost. I am called Ogrim.” He holds out his claw, and Ghost startles back.

Quirrel sees Ogrim droop slightly as he drops his claw and realizes that there is a conflict of rejections going on.

So many bugs had outright refused to shake Ogrim’s hand and tended to make offhand remarks about his smell without regard to whether he could hear them. He didn’t usually let it affect him, but he also didn’t usually reach out to shake hands with someone he didn’t know. He suspects that Ogrim has — despite his initial questioning gestures as well as likely confusion — correctly come to the conclusion that he and Ghost are partners and wants to approach them as such.

Ghost is flat-out unused to bugs approaching them as anything besides ‘other’ along with whatever traumatic event or events led to their absolute belief that other bugs find them disgusting to touch, reinforced by their coldness causing most bugs to flinch on first contact.

Quirrel says, “Hold on, my friends.”

Ogrim starts shaking his head, saying, “No, Quirrel, it is—”

“ _No_ , Ogrim, it _isn’t_. It never was, and I refuse to let the two of you start off this way.”

Ghost is staring at Quirrel now, and he can tell that they’ve picked up that there is a deeper meaning. He’s fairly sure that since they were wrapped up in their own reaction, they missed Ogrim’s deflation at their rejection of his proffered claw.

“Neither one of you often get a chance at a truly neutral first meeting,” Quirrel says softly. He has both of their attentions now.

Looking at Ogrim he says, “Ogrim has been asked for too many years to try and wash away his heritage.” He sees Ogrim startle back and turns to Ghost. “Because of what he is, his species, many bugs refuse to shake his claws in the mistaken belief that he doesn’t or can’t practice basic hygiene,” he says quietly.

They sit up straighter and cock their head.

“They also persist in ascribing far more strength to his odor than ever truly existed.” He looks back to Ogrim and continues, “Pillbugs have extremely sensitive olfactory organs, developed as part of our evolution in order to help us differentiate between appropriate decay that is healthy and necessary and that which would make us ill,” he says quietly. “Yes, as a species we don’t tend to find odors offensive, and so I cannot reasonably make that judgment. But I absolutely _can_ tell you that you rarely smelled anywhere near as strongly as anyone claimed.”

Quirrel looks back at Ghost and says, “Ogrim rarely offers his claw to anyone, because he knows that very few are willing to touch it.” He can see it finally click, and they jump up.

Before they can move further, Quirrel looks at them and says, “Ghost has been excluded for too many years because they are unknown, other.” They go absolutely rigid, and he watches them.

He’d shared Ogrim’s story first because he knew Ogrim had often said it himself, although as a way to tear himself down. What Ghost had shared with him was private, personal, and he wouldn’t go further without their acknowledgement. He hears Ogrim shift, and Ghost’s gaze snaps over to him. Hesitating, they look back to Quirrel and nod slightly.

“They have been told that their shell is disgusting, that its texture, feel, and temperature are abhorrent.” They are still staring at him, but have relaxed slightly, so he looks over to Ogrim. “They have learned to never let another bug touch them, so that they don’t have to watch them flinch away.”

Ogrim is staring at him as he speaks.

“You have both lived a life where the first reaction you often get when reaching out is rejection of that touch. I can’t fix that. I can say that Ogrim, you were always one of the most fastidious bugs I knew. I can say that touching Ghost is certainly different, and that they are quite cold, which is often a shock.”

Quirrel glances back and forth at both of them, until they turn and look at each other. He is surprised when it is Ghost who reaches out first, holding their hand towards Ogrim.

True to form, Ogrim immediately holds his claw back out, slightly open. Ghost barely touches it for a moment, watching him closely. Quirrel sees Ogrim startle, but his claw remains absolutely still. He always has had amazing arm control.

Ghost tilts their head slightly, and Ogrim lifts his claw up so that their hand is on it more firmly and closes his pincer to grasp their fingers. He bobs it up and down a couple of times and grins widely, finally laughing.

“Ah, a misunderstanding! I am glad we could sort it out. It seems we keep starting out on the wrong foot, Ghost.”

They snort and give Ogrim’s claw a final squeeze before they both let go.

Quirrel smiles as Ghost turns back to him. They step over and lean their forehead against his for a moment, then hop down and go over to the backpack to dig his mask out. He looks back at Ogrim while they shuffle around, and with a laugh holds his arms open wide and leans forward to grab Ogrim in a tight hug.

Ogrim grabs him back and with a booming laugh jumps to his feet. Quirrel’s feet are dangling but he doesn’t care, hugging his old friend as tight as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word definition time! And boy howdy, are these fun to keep separate; everything gets mixed up in everyday language. It was so damn frustrating to keep them separate as I went through my Emergency Medical Responder training that I force myself to use them correctly whenever it comes up simply to keep _myself_ from forgetting. This is especially important as I started another class this week — it is a “bridge course” that will take me from an EMR to Emergency Medical Technician instead.
> 
> I am _terrified_.
> 
> Neither of these are my actual job, but our plant keeps an Emergency Response Team on-site to deal with and assist in injuries (as well as Confined Space Rescue and HazMat Response), help decide if further medical assistance is needed, and if things are bad we can provide a certain level of medical assistance until the ambulance arrives. In an industrial environment, having a team on-site that can respond to a medical emergency within a couple of minutes can make a hell of a difference. We don’t get many calls, and almost all of them are minor. But the couple of times they haven’t been minor, having the team available helps a lot.
> 
> I have been a part of the team for… damn. Ten years now!
> 
> Anyhow!
> 
> A [bandage](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bandage) is what is used to wrap up an injury of some sort. When you wrap up a sprain, or have gauze wrapped around a pad, that’s a bandage. When you use a pre-made [adhesive bandage](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adhesive_bandage), it is actually comprised of two parts: the [dressing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dressing_\(medical\)) (the white pad in the middle) and the bandage (the part that makes it stick). I’m in the U.S.A., so everyone I know just calls those bandages, hence the confusion. The part that actually does the absorbing is the dressing.
> 
> I have found [the history of wound care](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_wound_care) to be absolutely fascinating, by the way! The Wikipedia article is very brief and western-focused, but still interesting.
> 
> While I have been decently accurate as far as taking care of wounds goes, don’t none of y’all go and use medical advice taken from a fanfic about bugs on yourselves!!!


	7. Love is Our Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost, Quirrel, and Ogrim head out to investigate a mystery; Quirrel is exhausted and needs to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!  
>   
> 

#### Quirrel

* * *

They spend most of the ‘morning’ sitting around a small fire and talking, catching up and sorting things out. Quirrel tells Ogrim what he remembers of what happened the last day he was in Hallownest, when the Hollow Knight had been consigned to the temple and the Seals cast. Ogrim tells them a little bit about what had happened in those initial days after. The Infection had disappeared. Those who had been Infected had recovered or died depending on how far it had progressed; how much of the bug was left. Ogrim hesitates but then tells them of the celebrations, the sense of relief that had descended.

Ogrim thinks that the remission lasted nearly thirty-five years, although he isn’t completely sure. He concedes that there could have been cases earlier, rumors and whispers. Ogrim does know that the Pale King had managed to keep the Infection’s return under wraps for at least a few years, but then chaos had descended.

Once the panic set in, once it was absolutely clear that the Infection had returned, the Pale King and the White Palace had disappeared. It left the kingdom in absolute disarray, and things hadn’t lasted long after that. The Infection seemed to feed on the fear, and scared bugs fled the kingdom to unknown fates. The City of Tears was locked down, and nobody had been allowed in or out.

Ogrim had been on the outside of the gates when they fell, and lost contact with Hegemol at that time. Ze’mer had been traveling, and he has no knowledge of where she might have gone. Dryya had gone with the White Lady when she had separated to her Gardens, although that had happened shortly after the Sealing.

Quirrel isn’t surprised; even he had seen the White Lady had been receding, pulling away from the kingdom. He winces at the brief shooting headache as he recalls Monomon discussing it with him one evening, wondering what had happened.

“Are you alright?” Ogrim asks, subdued. Discussing Hallownest’s fall had broken his cheer, which was no surprise.

Rubbing his temple, Quirrel nods. “It depends on how much returns, although I am not always aware of what I have regained. Some memories are just _there_ , and I don’t know when they returned.” He sighs and stares at his hands. “There is so much missing, my friend. How many other people have I forgotten so completely—”

Ghost is suddenly in his lap, holding his face, staring at him.

He hears Ogrim sigh. “You never were very good at accepting that some things simply take time. You would put in hours of practice and training, working on techniques and skills for years, but then be ridiculously frustrated when you couldn’t — as a completely non-random example — pick up Ze’mer’s meditation techniques overnight, despite her very explicit warnings that it would take years to learn.”

Ghost is still holding his face, and he feels Ogrim place a claw on his shoulder.

“Ghost’s reaction tells me that you haven’t fundamentally changed.”

Quirrel starts to object when Ghost snorts and shakes their head.

Outnumbered, he sighs and holds his hands up.

Ghost gently strokes his cheekpads with their thumbs. He sighs again and brings his hands up to cover theirs. Dejected, he mutters, “I don’t have to like it.”

They shake their head, and Ogrim chuckles.

Pulling him forward gently, Ghost ducks below his mask to kiss him. Tilting his head, he returns the kiss. He hears Ogrim huff quietly. Placing his hands on each side of their face, he curls his fingers lightly around the bases of their horns. Sitting up, he gently strokes his thumbs across their cheeks.

“Scandalized, old friend?” he asks quietly.

Ogrim chuckles. “No. Confused, but I believe that is due to lack of correct information.”

Quirrel glances up at him and drops his hands as Ghost turns and does the same.

“What do you need to know?” Quirrel asks.

Ogrim shakes his head and smiles. “Need to know? I have seen all I need to know — you love each other. There is much else I _wish_ to know, because I am as nosy as you.” He laughs. “I always knew where to go if I wanted to know the current gossip, or at least if I wanted to know the version that was closest to the truth!”

Quirrel chuckles. “Isma would tell you the wildest things, and you would come and see how many of them I had heard.” He stops as he realizes that Ogrim hasn’t mentioned Isma. Ghost had obviously been to her grove, where she had spent so much time relaxing and using the fertile leavings that came through the waterways to grow a wide variety of plants.

He hesitates but then says, “I know Ghost has been to Isma’s Grove, where they found… a fruit? A crystal? Something in-between I suppose.” Ogrim had looked away when he realized what he was talking about. Quirrel asks quietly, “Have you gone to see her after things fell apart?” 

Ogrim shakes his head. “I haven’t been to her grove. I kept telling myself… ah.” He covers his eyes with his claws and shudders. “I told myself the same lie I told Ghost, that my duty kept me away.”

Dropping his arms, he stares into the fire as tears start to fall.

“There was no duty once the Pale King had gone. You can’t be a knight without having a king to grant you veracity.” Ogrim looks down at his claws and starts poking at the ground. “We all shattered apart, same as the kingdom.” 

“I couldn’t bear it, to go there and find her grove empty,” he whispers. “She brought it life, vitality. Beauty in a place where nothing could otherwise grow.” He chokes on a sob before regaining his voice. “To see it all withered and rotted away would… Quirrel, I…”

Ogrim goes quiet after trailing off. Quirrel moves over and wraps his arm around Ogrim’s back, leans hard against him. Wonders if Ghost feels like this, as if they can’t hold on hard enough because they can’t reach all the way around.

Quirrel makes a highly undignified noise as he is suddenly engulfed in Ogrim, scooped up and nearly crushed in a hug. Ogrim starts to release him, but Quirrel wraps his arms around Ogrim’s neck and squeezes him back. Remembers that he has never felt that Ghost’s hugs were too small or never enough, because it wasn’t the arms doing the hugging that measured the size of the hug.

He holds on hard as Ogrim cries.

Ghost moves into his line of sight, holding up the slate. On it they have written, “Isma’s Grove isn’t dead. The plants are alive and vibrant, and she sits there as if asleep. Petrified, frozen in place.”

Quirrel does his absolute damnedest not to react. He continues to rub Ogrim’s back, moves his head to meet Ghost’s eyes, hopes they give him more to work with than that.

“I don’t know if she is alive or not. Her spirit is not there, and when I used the Dream Nail her thoughts felt different, closer. \- - - When I use the Dream Nail on an old corpse with lingering wisps of thought, one without a spirit, the thought is weak and distant. \- - - If I use it on someone who is alive and awake, they are awash with ideas and desires as well as thoughts and opinions. \- - - If I use it on someone who is alive and asleep or recently dead but refuses to leave, I enter their Dream Realm in some fashion and usually they fight to throw me back out. \- - - Isma was in-between, and had there been a spirit I would be able to say she was dead. \- - - But I can’t. Although I can’t say that she is alive, either. I don’t know, but her thought was ‘Ogrim, there’s no time.’”

Quirrel isn’t in the least surprised when Ogrim figures out Ghost has been talking to him behind his back. He clutches Ogrim tighter when he feels him start to move and whispers, “Ogrim, please wait a moment.”

He watches Ghost, who slumps and then shrugs. He agrees with the sentiment, but doesn’t know what to… except he does. Staring at Ghost, he realizes that if someone came to him and offered even the slimmest hope that Ghost could hear him, that they would know he was there once they are locked in that temple? He would want to know. And that if within that slim hope was the glimmer of a possibility that they could be saved, and he hadn’t been told…

Ogrim squeaks as Quirrel spasmodically squeezes him far harder than he should have, and Ghost straightens up at his look.

“Ogrim, my friend,” he says quietly, keeping his gaze on Ghost as he steps back, dropping his hands to grip Ogrim’s shoulders. “Are you willing to risk having your heart shattered again?”

He meets Ogrim’s stunned gaze and waits.

“What do you mean?” Ogrim asks in a whisper.

Quirrel shakes his head. “I mean just that. Right now, Isma is gone.”

Unsure of what else to say, he stops talking. He knows that by even bringing it up, he has given Ogrim a glimmer of hope that may or may not be warranted. He doesn’t want to dangle a bigger lure that Ogrim cannot turn away from. Isma is gone, but maybe doesn’t have to stay that way. It isn’t Quirrel’s heart and soul that will be wrung out and shattered chasing what may be a false hope. He knows the choice he would make today, but he doesn’t know the choice he would make after 200 years of grieving the loss.

“Tell me, Quirrel. Tell me the unspoken ‘but’. Isma is gone, but…”

“But her grove is alive and vibrant. Ghost says Isma sits there as if petrified or asleep. They have reason to believe that she isn’t dead, but cannot say that she is alive. Their evidence is…” and he stops, at a loss for words. Ogrim has grabbed his sides, his claws digging in slightly. He is riveted by Quirrel’s words.

“Their evidence is what?”

Quirrel shakes his head slightly and says, “Their evidence is beyond difficult to explain and takes a leap of faith to believe. But Ogrim; if they say there is a chance that she may be there? The evidence is solid, it’s the interpretation of what it means that is in doubt.”

He can feel Ogrim trembling.

Ogrim asks, “You trust their evidence, have this faith it is real?”

“Yes.”

Ogrim hesitates, then says, “You have always had a knack for finding the truth, no matter how strange or painful. If you say their evidence is real, then it is real.”

Quirrel nods, squeezes Ogrim’s shoulders, and says, “Ghost, help me repeat what you just told me.”

* * *

Ogrim had indeed found the evidence hard to fathom. Eventually, he had simply held his claws up and asked them to stop trying to explain, that he would accept it as true even if he didn’t understand how it was. He had then asked for some time alone and retreated back to his bedroom, and so now Quirrel and Ghost have little to do besides wait.

Quirrel feels absolutely wrung out. Between the injuries, the migraine, finding Ogrim, _remembering_ Ogrim, and now hauling Ogrim through what may be just a false hope…

Ghost is shoving a blanket at him. It is likely a measure of his mental exhaustion that he wonders why they want him to go to sleep before figuring out what they are actually after and folding it across his front. They gently push into his arms so they don’t press against his chest, letting him choose how hard to hold them.

Wrapping his arms around them, he realizes that he is shaking badly. He turns his face into the side of their head and holds them tightly; he chooses to simply exist in the moment, mind numb.

* * *

Quirrel doesn’t know how long Ogrim stays below, but it is a while. He is almost asleep — still holding Ghost — when Ogrim pops back up in front of them. Quirrel gasps in startlement at his sudden appearance. His reaction gets a small smile from Ogrim, so he just scoffs quietly as he releases Ghost, rather than complaining.

Ogrim is going to take them to Isma’s Grove. Ghost stares at Ogrim in absolute bafflement, which Quirrel understands — the route that Ghost had shown him they had taken to Isma is definitely not one Ogrim can take.

Ogrim indeed has a different way to Isma’s Grove. He takes them out to the ledge in the elevator shaft to explain it, and once Quirrel realizes that Ogrim plans to stand there to explain it, he steps back into the hallway with Ghost. Ogrim gives him a puzzled look, but must pick up on something because he simply steps back in and continues his explanation.

Unfortunately, they are going to have to go all the way to the bottom of the elevator shaft again. Quirrel groans. His injuries mean it is going to be even less fun than it was the first time, although if Ghost’s map is correct at least they are nearly halfway down already. Ogrim chuckles and pats his back before running out and leaping into the darkness.

Quirrel turns and faces Ghost, who shrugs and runs after Ogrim, leaping away and then briefly flapping back into view to wave at him.

“That’s _rude!_ ” he yells after them, then sighs and consigns himself to the crawl down.

* * *

Exhausted barely scratches the surface of how Quirrel is currently feeling. Irritated as well, but he suspects that is a side-effect of the exhaustion. Ghost and Ogrim had been having a quiet discussion when he finally made it down, and they had both taken one look at him and decided it was time to stop, rest, and eat.

Irked. Quirrel is irked as well. Which is a sibling to irritated but more nuanced.

Ghost had fussed around him some once he had reached the bottom. He had stumbled while walking over to them, and they had been concerned about his exhaustion. He had been churlish and curt. Ghost had then been exasperated, at which point it had bloomed into a full-blown argument and Ghost had given up on him with a huff.

So now he is feeling guilty and ashamed as well.

Perhaps what he needs is a thesaurus to list how he feels. If he makes the list long enough, maybe he can get it to wander around to ‘contrite’ and ‘apologetic’ before Ghost gets to ‘annoyed,’ ‘indignant,’ and ‘livid.’

Sighing, he folds forward and buries his mask in his hands, covering his eyes and trying to calm himself; he drives his breathing into as much of a smooth and even rhythm as he can.

He wakes up at the sensation of falling, flipping forward and crashing into Ghost, kicking Ogrim’s chin as he goes for good measure.

Laying on the ground, he blearily stares at them staring at him. He can’t get his brain to sort out what happened.

“What happened?” he mumbles.

Ogrim rubs his chin, then says, “You fell asleep where you were sitting after being uncharacteristically grumpy and surly. I believe Ghost was peeved enough to let you just sit there, but when you didn’t wake up after tipping over, we both realized you are far more exhausted than you let us know. I was picking you up to move you to a more reasonable place to sleep, and you kicked your way free.”

Quirrel shifts to look at Ghost, who is standing there with their arms crossed, looking quite cross. Apparently he didn’t get his list going fast enough.

Embarrassed, he looks back at Ogrim, who barks a laugh and says, “Oh no, my friend, you got yourself into this pickle! This is for you and Ghost to settle.” He swears there is a wicked twinkle in Ogrim’s eyes as he backs out of the little room, saying, “I seem to recall a certain pillbug saying that the best side to be on in a married couple’s argument is the other side of a closed door.”

Floored, Quirrel stares out the entryway from where he is laying. He turns to look at Ghost, who is standing as still as a statue, staring at where Ogrim had been. When he moves to sit up, they flinch and jump, turning to stare at him instead. They look ready to flee, and he isn’t sure how that makes him feel.

Deciding that impulsively going with his feelings and saying whatever comces to mind is what got him into this so-called pickle, he takes a deep breath and finishes sitting up, folding his hands in his lap.

Addressing the problems in order, he looks at them and quietly starts with, “I’m sorry. I was unkind earlier, and your concern was justified. I wasn’t aware of how tired I was, or wasn’t willing to admit it to myself. I should have listened, and I apologize.”

Ghost has lost the edge to their tension that had made it look like they would vanish before his eyes, but they still look ready to run.

Hurt but trying not to be, he looks down at his hands.

“Ghost,” he says softly. “You look like you are going to run away, and I don’t understand _why_.” Looking back up, he sees they haven’t moved. “Does his assumption bother you that much? I can tell him—”

They shake their head and sign, “No! Stop!” and then wrap their arms around their middle and squeeze.

Quirrel feels his emotional control fly away again. While not the worst time to try and have this discussion, there could definitely be far better ones. Feeling tears starting to form, he presses his hands back up against his mask and curls forward.

After a few moments, he hears Ghost move. He has thoroughly lost his battle to hold back the tears at this point, so he doesn’t sit up. Shadows shift as they step in front of him, and then he sees their feet. He feels their hands brush across his kerchief, and he hiccups as he tries to hold in the crying.

They lean into him and wrap their arms around his head, pulling him close.

He shakes his head a little and hiccups again. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m all over the place. You were right, I need rest. Need to sleep.” He shudders. “Whatever we find when we reach Isma, Ogrim will want to stay there for a while, I am certain.”

Ghost starts stroking his head with one of their hands as he whispers. It is soothing, and he can feel himself nodding off again. He inhales to say something else and loses the thought. Muzzily, he drops his hands back into his lap, then reaches out and snags a corner of their cloak.

Should it really be called a cloak? Bringing the edge closer, he sighs and draws it across his other hand, then trails it through his fingers. Ghost doesn’t interrupt their rhythm, slowly tracing their hand over his kerchief along the top of his head. Their cloak is as flexible as most thicker cloths. If he didn’t know they grew it, it would be difficult to tell even from this close. He can’t seem to focus on it, vision randomly fading out until finally it goes completely black.

* * *

Waking up again, Quirrel finds himself on his side, head on a pillow, tucked under a couple of blankets.

He feels terrible. In all senses of the word.

He had been a grouch; had said things he shouldn’t have when Ghost had just been trying to express concern. And while Ghost’s reaction to Ogrim’s assumption doesn’t make sense, he made some wild leaps of questionable logic about their reaction that also don’t make sense in hindsight. And all of it is predicated on him having correctly interpreted what their postures meant.

He is also still in pain and exhausted, although at least now it doesn’t feel like his eyes are floating away.

Sighing, he pushes himself up. The only plus is that he managed to keep his mandibles shut and didn’t make his wild conjectures known.

Looking around, it seems he has been abandoned in the room with the strange tree. It twines up from a trunk that is nearly as thick as his body, and it glows a dim red. He can hear Ogrim talking quietly out in the elevator shaft, interspersed with the faint sounds of Ghost writing on the slate. He should probably be thankful they haven’t just up and gone on to Isma’s Grove without him.

Quirrel stands up and walks silently over to the entryway. Stopping just short of entering the shaft, he quietly watches the two of them. They are playing what looks to be a game of strategy; Quirrel recognizes the game pieces from the one Ghost had pushed into his hand the one time he had reached into their body’s storage.

He’s never played, and so doesn’t have any idea who is winning.

Ogrim chuckles and moves one of the pieces, knocking over two others and picking up a third to place on his side of the board, and then replacing the one he takes with the piece he is holding. Based on the colors, Ogrim knocked over one of his own, one of Ghost’s, and the one he took was also Ghost’s.

Ghost sits up ramrod straight and crosses their arms. Quirrel is off to the side and behind Ghost, so he can’t see their posture well enough to be certain, but he is confident Ogrim is on the receiving end of a nasty glare.

He smiles. Ogrim is one hell of a tactician. He hides it behind being a jolly round goof, but he is ferociously efficient and wickedly smart. If Ogrim and Ze’mer had any time at all to consult and direct the forces, whether in game or on the field, they were nigh unstoppable.

Which is why anyone who knew them made damn sure they were on _opposite_ teams.

Ghost is now staring at the board. Ogrim smiles, looks up, and sees Quirrel watching them. When Quirrel doesn’t move or say anything, Ogrim leans back and says, “Your partner has quite the colorful vocabulary, Quirrel.”

Ghost had glanced up at Ogrim when he started talking and then shot to their feet and whirled around when they realized why he was talking. They are now staring at Quirrel.

He chuckles and says, “I have noticed that, yes.” Pausing briefly, he looks over and meets Ogrim’s eyes. “I apologize for being inconsiderate,” he says softly. “By not acknowledging I needed to rest, I slowed us down and risked injuring myself.” He looks back at Ghost. “I am sorry.”

Ogrim nods and says, “Yes, you did. I shall have to have strong words with your trainer about the need to teach you how to recognize when you have reached your limits.”

Quirrel looks up at the ceiling and sighs as Ogrim chuckles at his own wit. Looking back as he hears him stand up, he steps out into the shaft as Ogrim walks over.

“You are forgiven, my friend,” Ogrim says, and grabs Quirrel’s shoulder. “I am going to make myself conspicuously absent for… let’s say twenty minutes.” He looks behind him at Ghost, but he is blocking Quirrel’s view, so Quirrel doesn’t know how they respond. Looking back at Quirrel, he lets go of his shoulder and firmly pokes him in the belly with his claw.

“Hey!” Quirrel yelps, putting a hand over the offended area.

“Don’t fuck it up.”

Before he can respond, Ogrim bounds off in the direction of the Ancient Basin.

After a moment, he shakes his head and looks over to Ghost. They are standing with their arms crossed, but look like they are stuck somewhere between frustrated and unsure.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I…” he starts, but trails off when Ghost starts shaking their head.

They walk over to him and take his hand, then lead him into the room with the tree. Pointing at the blankets, they sign, “Please sit.”

Ghost picks up one end of the blanket and haphazardly drags it across his lap before dropping it and grabbing him. Burying their face in his shoulder, they squeeze him tight. He wraps his arms around them, placing one hand on the back of their head, and returns the hug. Ghost simply holds him for several long moments, not moving, barely breathing.

When they release him, they don’t step back, instead tentatively kissing the side of his head through the kerchief. He is unsure what they expected, but when he turns and tilts his head to participate in the kiss, they practically lunge at him, rapidly deepening the kiss and holding his cheeks. They start to fumble for his mask but then stop, pulling back and resting their hands on his cheeks again.

Slightly breathless, he stares at them. He knows he still isn’t thinking straight, is still exhausted both mentally and physically. He is baffled.

They take a small step back, then place one of their hands in the middle of his mask. Stepping back again, they sign, “I love you. I sorry I hurt you. I write, I tell you I think. I want tell you, I want you understand. I love you, please I try understand.”

“Ghost,” he says quietly, “I’m supposed to be apologizing to _you_. I messed up; I was so exhausted I fell asleep sitting up. I was… I said some nasty things to you, that you didn’t deserve.” Quirrel places his hand against the side of their head, curling his fingers around the base of their horn and gently tracing under their eye with his thumb. “I love you too,” he whispers. “I know you love me, which is why I also know that I completely overreacted to your reaction to what Ogrim said. I’m sure—”

Ghost steps forward and softly covers his mandibles with one hand, and the hand he has on their face with the other. When he stops talking, they step back again and then reach in and pull out a folded piece of paper. They hold it out to him, and then step back out of reach when he takes it.

He stares at it. He recognizes that this is probably easier than repeatedly writing and erasing on the slate, but his own history and the connotations it has given the act of a partner handing him a letter while looking very sad as they tell him they love him is beating him over the head.

The paper is shaking a little.

He glances up at Ghost, who is giving him an exceptionally puzzled look. That’s enough different from the normal way of things that it jolts him out of his mental rut. He shakes his head and then bundles the blanket up in his lap and holds his hand out. They grab it immediately and don’t resist when he pulls them into his lap, which reassures him further.

Wrapping his arm around them and hugging them tight, he says, “I’ll explain my reaction when I’m done reading this and we finish talking; we don’t need the diversion at the moment.”

Ghost nods, and he takes another moment to rub his cheek against their horn to reassure himself, kisses it, and then opens the letter.

Quirrel — I accept your apology. I think getting tired snuck up on you, somehow. There haven’t been any reasons (drugs) for you to be distracted (migraine) from taking care of yourself (fluke-bastards) or not paying attention (Ogrim) to how you are feeling (exhausted).

What you said hurt. I was angry and worked up, and then worried and upset that you hadn’t told us, which just made me angrier because I couldn’t figure out why you would try and hide that.

And so when Ogrim casually assumed we were married, my mind blanked. I got stuck at ‘why would he think that?’ long enough for you to notice I was shocked.

I could tell my reaction was hurting you, but I couldn’t think. When you offered to tell him we weren’t married, I was confused and hurt that you would think his assumption would bother me. I was getting upset and angry again, but knew I shouldn’t be, that it was an over-reaction because I had already been angry.

I was trying to calm myself down when you started crying. It shocked me enough that I remembered why Ogrim had left, why he thought we needed to talk. It reminded me how unlike you all of it was. When I walked over to try and get you to look up, I saw how badly you were trembling and realized that all we could do was hurt each other more, so I decided we shouldn’t talk right then.

Quirrel starts leaking tears again, and Ghost turns and leans their chin on the top of his belly, wrapping their arms around as much of him as they can. He pulls them in tighter.

It took you less than 30 seconds to fall back asleep once your head was supported.

I love you so much it scares me. The thought of you being that tired, climbing down the elevator shaft… I could have lost you; all I could think of as you leaned against me and slept was seeing you land on the ground in front of me, broken. I was so terrified; I still am.

Please, never do that again. I know it probably snuck up on you, but I don’t want to do this without you. I know we don’t talk about it, what I am doing, but you bring me joy. I know it is the opposite of what you want, but you keep me strong, give me a reason to keep going. And you are the reason I have any hope at all that another way may be possible, a reason for me to want to try and find that other solution.

I need to know you are here for me to come back to, that you are here and you want me, love me; that I am not just someone to fix a problem but someone who is wanted just for being me.

I love you. The idea of being your spouse fills me with so much joy I am blinded and can’t think. If you correct Ogrim’s misconception I will stab you in the knee.

Reaching the end of the letter, he gasps and then bursts out laughing for a moment before engulfing them in a hug and resting his head on theirs, wedged between their horns, as he laughs softly and weeps.

* * *

Approximately halfway through Ogrim’s promised twenty minutes, Ghost shifts from where they had been sitting in Quirrel’s lap, nuzzling their face gently into his chest before standing up and resting their forehead against his mask. Bringing their hands up and cupping his chin, they tilt his head back and start kissing him. He feels damp from crying but doesn’t particularly care. One hand on the back of their head, he sets the letter to the side and brings his other up under their cloak to knead their back.

Ghost slowly traces one of their hands along the bottom of his mandible as they continue to kiss him, stopping when they reach the back of his face and then following the same path with their mouth, tongue softly flicking cold along the bottom of his chin.

Quirrel groans quietly, pulling their head in closer. He tilts his head up and to the side to give them a little more room, and shivers as they lean in and nibble, tracing their other hand along his other mandible. Briefly slipping their hand from the back of his face up and around his head under his kerchief, they lightly touch one of his antennae and trail along the underside of it. He feels them sigh, their breath cold against the side of his belly, and they drop their hands until they’ve wrapped their arms around his neck and leaned against him, hugging him tightly.

Figuring they damn well knew what they were doing, he doesn’t bother shifting to disguise his arousal, simply pulling them against him and returning the hug, nuzzling his face into the side of their head, nibbling kisses on their shoulder. He hums a little as he relaxes, rubbing the back of their head, enjoying the hug.

A few minutes later, Ghost pulls back and rests their head on his mask for a moment, then leans to the side and picks up the letter. He takes it when they hand it to him, and they sign, “You worry first, I give you write?”

He sighs, tracing the edge of one of the folds with his finger. Starting to fold it back up, he chuckles and says, “You tripped over some old, painful memories from when I was a wanderer. I knew you were handing me this because writing what you wanted to tell me on the slate, erasing and writing again, all while trying to keep me from interrupting would be difficult.”

Ghost snorts and pokes his shoulder, and he laughs. “All right, yes, impossible.”

Quirrel leans forward and softly kisses their cheek, then leans his forehead against theirs.

“I never really stopped moving,” he says softly. “Whatever was in the mask, or the memory spells, or if it was something separate, whenever I stopped going forward, I started thinking about where I could go next.”

He fiddles with the front edge of their cloak, mindlessly drawing his fingers down along the edge. “I am fairly certain it doesn’t surprise you I had relationships, sex during that time.”

They shake their head, bringing their hands up alongside his face to cup his head, and he can feel them quivering with laughter.

He laughs softly. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled.” Pressing his head against theirs a little firmer, he sighs. “The thing is that I never had a _long_ relationship while I wandered. Even when I could have; when someone caught my fancy, and we were both travelers… I never looked at what was in front of me.”

Ghost stills, then moves their hands to his cheeks and steps back to look into his eyes. They shake their head a little, looking sad, and trace their thumbs along his cheeks.

“I think it was a part of the spell, the magic. I never really paid attention to how much time was passing. Even when I had returned, before you broke Monomon’s seal, I hadn’t thought about how old I was.” He reaches up and cups their face with his hand. “It didn’t remove my ability _to_ love, but it did keep me from staying, from being in the present and learning about whomever I was with enough to love _them_. I suppose it was because staying with someone would have meant noticing that they were aging, and I wasn’t.”

He leans forward and kisses them again. “I’ve digressed,” he says with a chuckle.

Looking back down at the hand holding their letter he murmurs, “There were a number of instances where a lover would come to me, in tears or in anger or just drained, and hand me a letter while they told me they loved me.”

He leans back forward, his forehead against theirs again, not really looking at anything, and gently traces the side of their face with the back of his knuckles until he runs into their horn. Sighing, he turns his hand and cups it around the back of their head and presses them closer against him.

“Told me they loved me, and handed me a letter saying why they couldn’t love me any longer,” he whispers.

Ghost gently wraps their arms around his neck and pulls him close, tucking their head over his shoulder. He puts his arms around them and holds them tight.

“I knew that wasn’t what your letter would be, in my head. But my heart was screaming in terrified panic.” Turning his head, he nuzzles a kiss against the side of their head and huffs a quiet laugh. “Does that sufficiently explain my reaction to you handing me a letter while you were upset?”

They squeeze him tight and nod.

“Good. Please store this for me,” he says, sitting back and handing them the letter.

They tuck it away and then look at him.

“We have two, maybe five minutes before Ogrim gets back,” he says, snaking one hand under their cloak and curling his hand around their back. “Why don’t you see how much you can make me regret starting this kiss,” he whispers, humming as they step forward into his lap, huffing with laughter.

* * *

Quirrel absolutely does _not_ regret starting the kiss. Given free rein to do as they pleased and damn the consequences, Ghost demonstrates that they are an astute learner and are extraordinarily observant as well. He is fairly certain that it has been a couple of minutes, but it feels like it’s been about half of one when he becomes aware of Ogrim chuckling. Gasping, he sits up. Ghost huffs, and he stares at them in a daze as they stand up and then lean into him and rub his cheeks. He reaches to grab them again and then stops himself with a groan.

Ogrim laughs merrily and says, “I am glad to see you kiss and make up! I am glad I didn’t return much later; it could have been quite embarrassing!”

Moaning, Quirrel rolls backwards and lays there, staring at the branches of the weird red tree in the little room. His abdomen is covered by the blanket, but he knows that it is doing nothing to hide his arousal, and it is entirely possible that it is making the situation worse. He hears Ghost start moving around the room, gathering the pillow and the other blanket and no doubt putting them away. They come back over to his side, and yank at the blanket. He yanks it back and throws it over his head before curling up and then re-discovering why aroused pillbugs shouldn’t curl up.

Ghost mercilessly yanks the blanket back and dances out of reach, flipping it around on the ground and folding it up as he watches mournfully. He feels Ogrim prod him in the carapace with his foot, and he groans again.

“Stand up, you foolish pillbug! I didn’t realize I had also needed to say ‘don’t fuck around’ when I told you not to screw it up,” Ogrim teases.

“The world is a cold, cruel place, lacking understanding of the— _hey!!_ ” Quirrel yelps as Ghost drops the backpack against his back.

Sitting back up, he glares at them as he straps it on. They step in front of him and cock their head, then step forward and kiss him again. Knowing what is coming, he grabs their face with his hands and kisses them hard just as Ogrim grabs him from behind and hauls him to his feet. He releases Ghost as he is pulled away, and they stand there staring at Ogrim in shock.

Quirrel has given up on having any dignity left at this point, and pulls on the straps to settle the backpack more securely in place, firmly ignoring his aroused situation as he turns to Ogrim and crosses his arms.

“Ahh, the memories!” Ogrim snickers. “You certainly were—” and he stops, glancing at Ghost.

Quirrel snorts. “They are fully aware I’m not a celibate bug.”

Ghost shrugs and signs, “I not upset, I not understand other bug worry—” and they wave their hands before continuing, “—I not understand bug worry he not their first sex. I not sex, he know I not, he know I not understand want. He respect me, we try sex later, he wait I want sex.”

Quirrel had wanted to bury his face in his hands about halfway through that, but then he wouldn’t have any idea how embarrassed he should be.

He glances over at Ogrim, who is standing there absolutely still until he meets Quirrel’s gaze, at which point he breaks down laughing.

Ghost looks to be extremely confused at Ogrim’s reaction.

“Ghost?” Quirrel says.

When they look over at him, he tells them, “One generally doesn’t relay their current active sex life — or inactive sex life — in casual conversation.”

They stare at him, then sign “I not understand. He not want know?”

Ogrim is gasping, but manages to get out, “Oh, Ghost! I definitely wanted to know, it’s just that… just that…” before finally collapsing to the ground wheezing.

Ghost watches Ogrim for a few more moments, perhaps in the hope that he finishes his sentence. When he doesn’t, they turn and look at Quirrel.

“Ghost, you’ve watched bugs, I know you have,” Quirrel says plaintively. “Bugs just don’t… randomly talk about their sex lives!”

They stare at him. Pulling out the slate they write, “Bugs most definitely talk about their sex lives at the most gods-damned random moments as far as I observed. \- - - They brag about it, compare notes for tips about it, complain about it, ask for help with it, tell others they need to fix it, need more of it. \- - - They write about it, hide in corners and snicker about it, graffiti it to walls, paint it on ceilings, tile it on floors, carve it in stone, cast it in bronze. \- - - There is food for fucking, drinks to enhance pheromones for fucking, stones etched with prayers to the gods for more fucking.”

“ _Stop!_ ” Quirrel groans.

Ogrim has completely lost it and is laying on his back, continuing to wheeze, but manages to get out, “You owe me 1,000 Geo!!”

The non-sequitur catches Quirrel off guard. “What?” he asks.

Ogrim rolls up into a sitting position, arms crossed across his middle, and gasps out, “I told you once that I wanted to witness the day someone embarrassed you with a frank discussion about sex and relationships!” He is losing the battle to his giggles again. “And you said… you said… ah! You _said_ that could never happen! Ha! That, that… ah ha! That open communication was… was…”

Quirrel is experiencing a horrible sense of karma being served up; a vague tickling of memories that suggest he — his younger self anyhow — should have kept his damn mandibles shut sometimes.

Ogrim has continued on. “…was _critical_ and that so long… long as… ha! So long as it was _sincere_ and _honest_ it could… ha! It could never be _embarrassing!_ ” He topples over onto his back again, rocking back and forth as he laughs. “I said that eventually… ha! Eventually even _you_ , with your extraordinary open nature and lack of… lack of inhibitions… ah ha! Even you could eventually be embarrassed! And you said, you _said_ that…”

Quirrel covers his eyes and groans, the ghosts of his past hovering around, coming home to roost.

“You said that you couldn’t imagine any situation where…” Ogrim wheezes a little, manages to calm enough to get back to sitting. “You couldn’t imagine any situation where you would ever be caught off guard enough to be embarrassed! And I said… aha! I said you were silly and naive and had an awful lot of living left to do! Ha! Gods, you were nineteen, _nineteen!_ And _so_ full of _shit_ , and I would know!” He is gasping again in his merriment, but Quirrel refuses to drop his hands and look. “You said that you, oh _gods_ Quirrel, you said that you had lived long enough to damn well know this! I told you to put your money where your mandibles were, and now you owe me 1,000 Geo!”

Quirrel decides that there is no way he is going to tell Ogrim that Ghost has successfully embarrassed him several times now, that apparently what it took to completely rattle his bedrock of open communication and frank discussion was for them to 100% accept his declaration at face value and then apply it with a confusing mixture of deep understanding, a scattershot of pre-existing knowledge, a lack of inhibitions, no ingrained shame regarding sex, and absolutely no clue what they were doing.

He stands there listening to Ogrim wheeze and giggle away, eyes covered. After a few more moments of that, with no sign of abatement, he drops his hands and looks at Ghost. They seem quite put out, and he can’t really blame them. With a sigh, he holds his hand out to them and says, “Younger me was a rather insufferable ass,” which sends Ogrim back into an uproar. Ghost shakes their head and puts the slate away before coming over and taking his hand. They both stand and watch Ogrim for a few moments.

“I don’t suppose you have 1,000 Geo I could borrow?” Quirrel asks Ghost, and then dashes out the door as they draw their nail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. You know what? Didn’t I say something _last_ chapter about how this chapter was supposed to have been part of it but it got too long and so I just split it and was going to put the rest of it here, in this chapter?
> 
> Yeah. About that.
> 
> It kept going. This is the fucking Energizer Bunny of chapters. Holy shit.
> 
> I suppose this benefits all of _you_ because I made myself finish the damn thing to where this arc was _originally_ meant to end, and I admit that I am absolutely tickled with how this turned out in general.
> 
> But.
> 
> This is the first of the _three fucking chapters_ I split the “second” chapter into… which means that the one chapter originally planned is now four chapters plus a little because I am _also_ posting the much-debated and highly nerve-wracking smut stuff.
> 
> Slightly shorter chapters, but still… gods. Gods, I hope you all enjoy these. They have been a blast to write! Exhausting but fun.


	8. I Will Wait a Thousand Years to See You Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirrel, Ghost, and Ogrim find Sleeping Beauty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Brief discussion of _Prior Suicidal Thoughts_.  
>   
> 

#### Quirrel

* * *

Quirrel doesn’t run far when Ghost chases him. They tackle him in the middle of the elevator shaft, and he collapses, laughing. They (lightly) bonk him on the head with the flat of their nail, and he mock-collapses to his side, moaning. He can feel their breath huffing coolly across his side as they laugh, draped over his side with their head on the backpack and feet dangling by his belly. He chuckles, and brings his hand up across his chest and rubs their back. He hums softly, and then simply relaxes. He doesn't know how much sleep he got, so… Quirrel sighs.

“How long did I manage to sleep?” he asks.

Ghost doesn’t seem to want to move from their flop, but after a moment they gently kick him twice, pause, and then a third time.

“Two-and-a-half hours?” he confirms, and gets a single kick in response.

He scoffs and squeezes them in a half-hug.

“It definitely helped, but I can tell it is only going to carry me so far,” he says quietly. He feels them sigh and then nod, followed up by a soft kick, likely in case he didn’t catch the nod.

“I’ve seen you collecting some Geo as we’ve wandered about, as have I. My guess is that we have enough to open the station by the Palace Grounds. If Enric can hear the bell, we could go home and rest, sleep, soak in the springs.” He sighs. The hot springs sound absolutely _lovely_ at the moment. _Sleeping_ in the hot springs sounds absolutely _divine_. He can also think of _other_ things to do in the hot springs, having gotten worked up a couple of times now and… and firmly puts a stop to _that_ train of thought as he feels things stir.

Ghost shifts some but doesn’t respond, so he drags his mind back up out of his libido and says, “Or, we could camp in the station tonight and attempt to summon Enric in the morning. Although if he doesn’t hear the bell, I suppose we will be camping there as well.” He feels them twitch in what he guesses is a shrug, and laughs softly. “Or we could figure it all out later after getting to Isma and knowing more about what Ogrim needs, what she may or may not need.” They give him a light kick. He hums his agreement, and goes back to mindlessly staring at the wall.

He hears Ogrim step into the shaft, still chuckling away.

“What are you two doing? That doesn’t look to be accomplishing any relief for Quirrel’s predicament!”

Quirrel shifts and directs a rude gesture in Ogrim’s direction, feels Ghost move some and twitch.

“Ah, it is so wonderful to see a couple in such perfect sync! Minds as one, hearts—”

Quirrel rolls smoothly to his side, depositing Ghost gently on the ground, and dashes over to Ogrim, who figures out his intentions at the last moment and bounces away with a laugh; Quirrel’s nail makes a soft ping against his armor but mostly strikes air.

* * *

The path Ogrim intends to take them through starts from the small room with the tree at the bottom of the elevator shaft. There is a soft area of the ground where Ogrim burrows under, warning them that it will take him a while to get back up and around to where he can open a passage safely. Before leaving he had chuckled softly, suggested that Quirrel try and nap again, then poked him firmly and said, “No screwing around!”

Ghost digs the pillow and a blanket out and pokes him until he lies down, then pulls out the insulated pad when he snags them and tries to bunch up the blanket to cuddle. They burrow against him, carefully shoving their face against his chest and then wrapping their body around his belly as he pulls them against him, hand against the back of their head.

He’s not sure how long it takes him to nod off, although it isn’t instantaneous. He wakes up to empty arms and an empty room with a hallway. He panics for a moment before waking up enough to realize that the others are probably back out in the elevator shaft.

That is indeed where he finds them. They have gone back to the game, although this time he walks up to them to watch. They both look up to acknowledge his presence with a nod, then return to their game. It looks like Ghost is losing badly.

He sits down to the side of the game, placing the small pile of folded blanket, pad, and pillow beside him.

After watching the game for a few turns, he decides that perhaps Ghost _had been_ losing and are now _still_ losing, but at a much slower pace.

Ogrim makes a move and then looks at him while Ghost ponders again.

“Did you have a nice nap?” Ogrim asks.

Quirrel nods. “Although based on how I’m feeling, it was longer than a ‘nap.’”

Ogrim nods. “You slept through the noises I made opening the passage back up as well as Ghost extricating themself from what looked to be a tightly enforced cuddle,” he snickers. “So, we let you be.”

Ogrim sighs, and then glances back at the game as Ghost finally makes a move. “There is nothing that getting there a couple of hours sooner would help,” he says quietly and then looks back at Quirrel and reaches over to gently grab his shoulder. “And a lot to be gained by enabling you to have your wits about you. The path isn’t nearly as difficult as the elevator shaft, but does still have dangers.”

Reaching up, Quirrel clasps Ogrim’s claw and nods. “Although I fear I have now totally disrupted my sleep patterns,” he says.

With a laugh and a final gentle squeeze of Quirrel’s shoulder, Ogrim looks back to the board and makes a move. “There is little reason to worry. I will likely be staying in Isma’s Grove for a while, either to grieve or to hope.”

He looks back to Quirrel, serious again. “There hasn’t been much to hope for here in an awfully long time. I am scared to try.” Looking at Ghost, Ogrim sighs and quietly continues, “I also am afraid to ask what your plans are, but knowing that you are breaking the seals I can guess.”

Ghost looks up at Ogrim sharply, and Quirrel drops his gaze into his lap and watches his hands.

“You are an intelligent bug, Ogrim,” Quirrel says softly. “Your guess is probably correct, although I don’t know how much Ghost has told you.”

“All they have said is that Monomon called you back to the kingdom somehow, and that being in the Archives shatters the bindings on your memories at such a devastating rate that it nearly killed you.”

It’s Quirrel’s turn to look up sharply, first at Ogrim and then over at Ghost. Ogrim is looking at him with compassionate pity, and Ghost looks glum.

Watching Ghost, Quirrel says, “That is a rather interesting way to put the fact that they found me at the Blue Lake not long before no one would ever have found me again.”

Hearing Ogrim suck in a breath, he starts to look over, but Ghost has started shaking their head violently.

Grabbing the slate from beside them, they start writing.

Quirrel meets Ogrim’s eyes while they write, and to his unasked question responds, “Once the spells affecting my memory were broken, all that had returned was a clear understanding of what was needed from me in the moment, a few random snippets of knowledge from my life in Hallownest, and overwhelming grief for and anger at someone I could barely recall.”

He sighs, hears Ghost finish writing and whispers, “Within the Archives the memories overwhelm me, appearing as motes and bubbles of light as they swarm around or within me. Each one is only a disconnected fragment of a whole. They don’t stop showing up. I could barely eat, hardly sleep. I was there for a week before I fled to the lake. I thought I was broken, that the memories would never connect, never stop swarming.”

He looks over at Ghost, who is holding the slate but hasn’t turned it for either of them to see yet. Hesitating to see if they are going to show what they have said yet, he continues when they just look at him sadly. “I hadn’t picked up on the fact that I wasn’t being bombarded as I sat there. Everything was scrambled, my emotions a raging incoherent swirl. I thought… I just wanted it to _stop_. It hurt so much, I felt sick, I was grieving someone I didn’t know, and raging against an assault I didn’t think I could stop. And I thought… I thought I saw a way to make it _all_ stop. All I had to do was walk forward one more time, wander into the lake and make one final discovery. When I stopped thinking, I felt at peace.”

Shuddering, he inhales deeply. “What I hadn’t realized was that by leaving the Archives, the assault had _already_ stopped. I just thought that the peace came from knowing it wouldn’t hurt for much longer. That was when Ghost found me.”

Quirrel stops talking. Ghost looks miserable. Ogrim doesn’t need to know that Ghost had started to walk away, had accepted Quirrel’s decision. That it was Quirrel’s reaction to Ghost’s cold touch — his instinctual flinch away from the chill — which had saved him.

He leans over and reaches out to touch their arm, and they grab his hand, squeezing hard.

He looks back at Ogrim, who is sitting there in shock. “They dragged me away from the lake, took me home, gave me time to realize I wasn’t consigned to that fate. The grief was still, _is_ still there. But I can see my life around it, and so long as I stay away from the Archives, I can see more than millions of fragments of a life that is gone.”

He gives Ghost’s hand a brief squeeze but doesn’t let go. “We have gone back once, into the Archives. The assault is confined to within them. I have no idea if, should I spend some time there, I would regain memories faster; although I suspect I would.”

Ghost yanks his hand hard, their grip clamping down almost painfully. Startled, he looks back over to find them shaking their head fiercely.

He snorts. “I have no intention of trying, love. Only as a last resort, only if we can’t learn more out here. I like to think I am fairly intelligent with only occasional moments of unadulterated foolishness.”

They continue to stare at him, their grip not relaxing. He can feel them shaking.

Quirrel squeezes their hand back. “I promised, Ghost. I promised to hold on, and I meant it.”

Ghost watches him a little longer, then releases his hand. They look at the slate again, and erase part of it and write something else before turning it around for them to see.

“It was killing you, breaking your mind, torturing you endlessly. A bug who doesn’t sleep is a week from death without the assault on top.”

Quirrel doesn’t say anything when he finishes reading, just meets Ghost’s eyes again.

Ogrim murmurs, “They are right. Sleep deprivation alone will drive a bug to insanity and death.”

Ghost had started writing again as Ogrim spoke, nodding their head.

“After a few days away, once you had eaten, gotten some sleep, have you felt that way again?”

Shocked, Quirrel looks up at them again. He hadn’t thought about it other than as something that had happened. Which answered the question they were asking.

He shakes his head. “No. Only as something I almost did, which terrifies me.”

They give him a hard nod, then set the slate aside and hop up to grab him in a fierce hug. He huffs and returns it, and after a moment both of them are yanked sideways as Ogrim decides to participate as well.

“Thank you Ghost, for saving him, bringing him back, dragging him to see me,” Ogrim whispers. “For not letting this gods-forsaken kingdom steal my friend before I even knew I might have him back.”

* * *

Ghost had conceded the game and packed it up, putting it away along with the blanket, pad, and pillow. Ogrim finally caught on to the fact that Ghost was stuffing an awful lot of things under their cloak, and they gave him a brief demonstration — although without the hands-on (hands-in?) portion Quirrel had gotten.

Leading them back into the room and down the newly-opened passage, Ogrim says, “I had always wondered how the Hollow Knight seemed to carry just slightly more than seemed reasonable! I wonder if it was something they chose to disguise, or if it was something the Pale King had told them to do?”

Quirrel shrugs, not having an answer for what is obviously a rhetorical question.

It takes a couple of hours of travel through the twisting tunnels before they reach a shaft leading up. Watching Ogrim start to scramble up the rough walls and ledges, Quirrel shakes his head and is glad he was bullied into sleeping. He looks at Ghost, who shrugs and gestures for him to start climbing. He smiles at them, and with a chuckle starts scrambling up after Ogrim.

Ogrim is waiting for him at the top of the shaft, where paths lead off in three directions. He looks a little lost, and Quirrel walks over to lean against him, wrapping an arm around his back. Ogrim pulls him tight and shudders. Ghost pops up over the top, a final leap and flap propelling them over the lip of the shaft.

Quirrel feels Ogrim startle at the sudden eruption of the wings, and then chuckle.

“Those are new! And gorgeous,” he says.

Ghost hops and then flaps them again, still tickled at their existence.

Ogrim points down one of the passages and says, “This tunnel leads out to Kingdom’s Edge and the Hive, although it gets smaller and is too tight for me to use as it goes through stone in places.” He points down the second one and continues, “This one also leads to Kingdom’s Edge, although it is much longer and requires far more climbing up.”

Ghost has stopped and is now sitting, scribbling away on their map and making notes. They have run up against the edge of what they have, and so their notes and direction indications are slightly cramped. They pull out an orange marker and pin it to the map at the top of the shaft.

Quirrel’s memory niggles, and he asks Ogrim, “Kingdom’s Edge… is it… Hornet told Ghost to meet her at ‘the grave in ash.’ It made me think of that area, although I couldn’t recall what it was called or how to get there. Would that be the right area?”

Ogrim nods. “Yes, it should be. It was highly restricted knowledge, but you would have learned it upon being Knighted. The king’s wyrm body was shed there. The area is still covered in the ash of its decomposition, the body itself on the far eastern edge.”

He looks at Ghost, puzzled. “Why would she want you to meet her there, and then not tell you how to get there?”

Ghost huffs, and does the rolling-their-eyes impression again before pulling out the slate. “Who the fuck knows. So far all she does is either kill me or spout cryptic and almost-helpful-yet-not information.”

Quirrel snorts, and Ogrim yelps, “ _What!?_ ”

Turning to Ogrim Quirrel asks, “Which part of that needs clarification?” although he suspects he knows exactly which part made Ogrim yelp.

Based on the baleful glare he receives, he’s fairly certain Ogrim knows he probably didn’t need the clarification but says, “Kills them?”

“They die but come back,” Quirrel says with a shudder, wrapping his arms around himself. “I’ve… seen it a couple of times now.”

Ogrim is staring at Ghost, aghast. He finally manages to get out, “That must have been a hell of a thing to learn, if you didn’t somehow already know.”

It’s Ghost’s turn to shudder deeply, and they nod.

“I not know. I fight, I—”

Ghost stumbles to a stop, then looks up at Quirrel but Ogrim beats him to it, saying “Die” as he makes the sign, then repeating it when Ghost only caught part of it.

Repeating the sign Ghost continues, “I not know I come back. I fight, I die first time not here. I come back, I sick, I scared, I not understand.” After a moment they shrug and then sign, “I not understand now, not know bring me back, come back.”

“I’ll be damned,” Ogrim whispers. “The Pale King likely didn’t know that.” He turns to Quirrel and says, “Once he had us start training them to fight, we were told that injuries wouldn’t slow it… _them_ —”

Ogrim makes a sharp gesture and turns to Ghost. “Forgive me, please. It was so easy to slip into saying ‘they’ when we were around them, and the Pale King was absolute in correcting us. I never had that problem with the Kingsmoulds. I suspect my subconscious knew more than I was aware of.”

Ghost shakes their head and signs, “You ok, I not upset. You not know, you tell—” and they shake their head again, wave their hands a little and then look at the two of them plaintively as they sign “Tell” again.

Quirrel takes a stab at it and says “Told?” while signing the word.

They nod, and then start again, “You told not—” and throw their hands up in frustration to dig out the slate.

When they glance up, Quirrel signs as he says, “Truth. Lie. False.”

Propping the slate against their side, Ghost repeats the signs but gives him a look that indicates they don’t think those are going to sink in right now. He nods with scoff, unsurprised. He will try and remember to add them to the list they have put together for review later.

Writing, they say, “You were either told a known lie, or something that everyone wished was true so hard they wouldn’t look for the real truth.”

Quirrel says, “I firmly believe it was the second one.” He turns to face Ogrim. “I figured it out… I _suspected_ and started questioning a couple of weeks before the Sealing. It was when I was called in to tutor Hornet for a while.”

Ogrim nods and Quirrel continues, “You saw how she treated them.” Ogrim nods again, dejected.

Quirrel sighs. “Precisely. I wrote a report and gave it to Monomon, and she waved it off.” Shrugging morosely, he says, “Same with the second one, except that time I was handed other duties and kept from the palace.”

“I had wondered why you were suddenly gone again.” Ogrim sighs. “It had been wonderful, having you around and visiting. The next thing I knew, you had left the kingdom without saying goodbye to anyone.”

Quirrel reaches over and grabs Ogrim’s claw, squeezing it. “I am sorry, old friend,” he says.

Ogrim just shakes his head and hauls him over for another hug.

Partially releasing him, Ogrim leaves his arm draped over Quirrel’s shoulder and continues his interrupted statement.

“The Pale King told us injuries wouldn’t slow them down, that they could self-heal, but only to a point. He had given them strict instructions with many caveats that they were to stop before getting killed. We rapidly figured out that when they were injured _enough_ , they started seeping void and were weakened, and we knew to stop as well.” He pauses. “I would like to think that the king wouldn’t make us kill them if he knew they would come back,” he says softly. “If he _did_ know, then that was how he chose to offer mercy I suppose.”

Ogrim scoffs. “As for Hornet, she has rarely visited — although I have seen her from time to time. She does not approve of my desertion, for lack of a better word. My way of coping, hiding away.” He gives Quirrel a gentle squeeze and drops his arm. “She is kindly enough when she does visit, in her brusque way. She brings food, what scant news there is. She passed through a couple of weeks ago, said that a couple of bugs had come to the kingdom, and others had returned.”

He cocks his head, thinking. “She was subdued, didn’t talk as much. When she left, she turned back and gave me a tight hug. She hadn’t done that in many, many years. As she left again, she said she hoped I would go find the visitors, but didn’t look at me. I think she knew I wouldn’t, and didn’t want to be disappointed yet again.”

Ogrim sighs and inhales as if to speak, then shakes his head and looks away. “I have become nothing but— _what the fuck?!_ ”

Quirrel is bent over, hands on his knees, laughing as he watches Ghost glaring at Ogrim, whom they have just kneecapped with their nail. Hard.

Ogrim is glaring back. Quirrel gasps and catches his breath and manages to get out, “Welcome to your Cognitive Behavioral Physical Therapy session.” Losing it again for a moment, he manages to continue, “This is your therapist, Ghost, who is Fed Up and Tired of Our Shit and entirely willing to beat it out of us.”

Frowning, Ogrim crosses his arms and glares at Ghost for a moment longer before glaring at Quirrel. “What if I refuse medical care?”

Laughing, Quirrel stands back up and says, “You are welcome to submit the appropriate forms to your therapist, who will deal with them accordingly. I wish you luck, but I do believe you have been claimed and are now going to be cared for whether you wish it or not.” He snorts. “Twice over.”

Put out, Ogrim goes back to glaring at Ghost, arms still crossed. Ghost mirrors the pose.

Watching for a few moments, Quirrel decides to inform Ogrim, “You do realize that they don’t need to eat, drink, or excrete, and require very little sleep, yes?”

Ogrim glares harder for a moment, then throws his arms up and says “Fine!” before stomping off down the third tunnel.

With a firm nod and a huff, Ghost follows after.

* * *

The three of them soo stand on a ledge overlooking Isma’s Grove. Ghost hadn’t been exaggerating when they said it was alive and vibrant. Quirrel has never been here before, at least not that he recalls. It feels hauntingly familiar, however.

Ogrim is absolutely still, slowly looking around the room. Ghost is leaning against Quirrel’s leg, although he thinks it is just to be touching him. They seem calm. He rests his hand on their head, fingers rubbing along the back of it.

After a few minutes, Ogrim takes a deep breath and turns to Quirrel and Ghost. He gives them a brief nod and then scrambles down the wall, using the vines to climb. The two of them follow him down into the greenery.

* * *

Isma is at the far end of her grove, wrapped in vines. She had been a plant being, so the vines could also have been part of her.

Ghost hops over to where she is and uses the Dream Nail. They don’t react, so Quirrel presumes that whatever happened, it wasn’t significantly different from previously. Ogrim is just staring at her, and Quirrel isn’t sure he even realizes Ghost has used the Dream Nail. He reaches over and touches Ogrim’s elbow, and after a moment Ogrim looks back over at him.

“She… Quirrel, she looks… I’ve never seen her so overgrown, but she looks like she is just sleeping,” he whispers.

Quirrel grips his elbow firmly. Ogrim takes a deep breath, then nods sharply and steps to the edge of the ledge and starts hopping his way over to where Ghost is. Quirrel follows.

Reaching her, Ogrim stops and stares again. He reaches forward haltingly, and Quirrel can see he is shaking badly. He knows some corner of his mind hopes that she will wake up when Ogrim touches her — or barring that, when Ogrim kisses her — like some fairy tale ending. Unfortunately, reality being what it is, the only thing that happens when Ogrim touches her is that Ogrim starts weeping as he says her name over and over again.

He turns away to give Ogrim a modicum of privacy, and looks at Ghost. Judging by their droop, it seems that they had harbored similar hopes. They look up at him, then sign “Hug” before leaping up. They flap once in front of him while he catches on to what they meant, then catches them and wraps them in his arms, weeping for his friend.

* * *

Quirrel stands there and holds Ghost for a long time, doing his best not to listen as his friend lays bare his soul, saying the things he should have said a long time ago; wishes, love, dreams.

When Ogrim stops talking, he hears some rustling and turns to find Ogrim leaning against her, head bowed. Stepping back, Ogrim looks up at where her head is hanging over the little area. He reaches up and softly touches her cheek, saying her name again before stretching up and giving her another gentle kiss. Sighing, he turns and walks over to where Quirrel is standing and shakes his head.

“If she is here, I don’t know that she can be reached, or if she can hear me,” he says quietly. “I wish to stay here a while though, as I am certain you expected.”

Quirrel nods, releasing Ghost as they push back. He is hoping they are going to try the Dream Nail again; he doesn’t want to bring it up.

They glance up at him, and then Ogrim, who looks puzzled and then seems to recall what precipitated this whole trip and nods slightly. He doesn’t look hopeful, which Quirrel believes is likely for the best.

Ghost nods back and then goes to Isma and uses the Dream Nail again. As always, Quirrel just sees a flare of ethereal purple, although it is possible he now also sees motes of Essence. Ogrim gasps, and Quirrel looks over at him.

“I wasn’t expecting to see anything, from what you told me,” Ogrim says.

Quirrel nods and replies, “I wasn’t sure if you would be able to see anything. I know I can see soul and you can’t, and so I didn’t know if this would be similar.”

Ghost is looking up at Isma, and seems disappointed.

He questions his interpretation as Ghost steps forward and swings the Dream Nail again. Stepping back, they look up at her face again before turning to Quirrel. They stare at him a moment before walking over and handing him the Dream Nail.

Pulling out the slate they write, “We never had you try using the Dream Nail after you absorbed the essence from the broken Vessel. \- - - Use it on me, tell me what happens this time.”

Unsure, Quirrel kneels in front of them. He holds the nail and swings it at them, and for a moment he almost feels _something_. Looking down at the nail, he tries to recall what they said about using it. They start to erase the slate to no doubt explain, and he decides that perhaps it requires _intent_ , similar to the climbing claws. He looks up at them again and catches their eyes, and swings again.

She feels…her thought feels different…but stays the same. I want…maybe if Quirrel…he knew her…

Gasping, Quirrel stumbles and falls backwards, staring at Ghost.

They cock their head to the side, and he says, “That was _odd_ and disorienting.”

Nodding with a huff, they put the slate back away and then point at Isma.

Standing up slowly, Quirrel turns to look at Ogrim, who has wrapped his arms around himself as he watched the byplay.

Deciding to get the thought Ogrim may be having out of the way first, he says, “This didn’t work for me before. There was… I was gifted a partial attunement that neither of us understand, but we hadn’t tried to see if that changed my ability to do anything with the Dream Nail since it happened.”

Ogrim deflates again, and Quirrel is glad he said something first. “Ghost is wondering if I would get a different thought, whether because I am simply someone else, or because I knew her.” He very deliberately doesn’t mention that Ghost is thinking that her thought felt different.

Ogrim squeezes himself again, and then nods.

Turning, Quirrel walks over to Isma. Looking up into her sleeping face, he wonders if he should sit down first and save himself the fall but decides against it. Dropping his gaze, he swings the Dream Nail, forgetting the _intent_ part until the last moment.

…no time…

It was extremely faint, and he almost missed it. Glancing back up at her face again, he focuses his thoughts, and tries again.

Ogrim, there’s no time… ?

His head snaps up and he stares into her face. Ghost hadn’t mentioned her thought being a question, or questioning.

Her thought is still extremely faint, especially compared to what Ghost’s thoughts had been. Behind him, he hears Ogrim say his name, questioning. Quirrel swings again.

Ogrim, there’s no time… ?

He wonders if she can somehow sense the Dream Nail being used, that someone else is using it — someone she knew. Or alternatively if she is perhaps aware that Ogrim is here.

Deciding against trying to let her know Ogrim is here he goes with trying to project ‘I’m here’ — it is far simpler, and he can throw his whole being into it. He swings again, burning with intent.

Ogrim, there’s no… no time… ?

He is sure of the difference this time. Still the same words, but there was a hesitation, unless he is imagining it. He hears Ghost coming up behind him, and swings again.

Ogrim, there’s… there’s no… time… …Quirrel?

His gaze snaps to her face again, although there is no difference to be seen. Ghost has gripped his hand where it is holding the Dream Nail, squeezing gently and tugging. He looks down at them.

“It changed,” he whispers. “Her thought, it changed. The first time was what you had said, but I hadn’t focused correctly, and I could barely find it, and I only got half of it. That’s why I tried again, and it was just…” He turns and glances over to Ogrim, who has come over with Ghost.

“The second time, it almost felt like a slight question.” He looks back down at Ghost. “You hadn’t mentioned that she was questioning.”

Ghost shakes their head.

“So, I swung again, focusing more while thinking ‘I’m here’ as hard as I could.” He looks to Ogrim. “I thought of trying to let her know you were here, but decided if I went with myself it might have more strength, even if it has less appeal,” he says quietly. Ogrim nods sharply.

“It stuttered that time; the feeling of a question was stronger. The last time… that last time…” He looks up at Isma. “She thought my name, that last time.”

Quirrel shakes his head firmly. “I haven’t used it enough to know if my thoughts influence what I perceive.” He looks back down at Ghost, who shakes their head but seems a little uncertain.

He releases the Dream Nail into Ghost’s hand.

They spin and step up to Isma, swinging firmly.

A moment of stillness, and they step back. They look up at Isma, then turn to face Quirrel and Ogrim and sign, “Thought different. Think no time, think you, want know you stop. Want you tell here,” gesturing towards Quirrel when they sign ‘you’ to indicate recognition.

Ogrim collapses to the ground with a sob, and Quirrel whirls around to grab him in a fierce hug. Ogrim engulfs him, and then shoves him away with a desperate half-laugh, saying, “Answer her question, damn you!” before grabbing him back into another hug and whispering, “Please, oh gods, _please_ answer her question.”

* * *

Isma’s thoughts change slowly. They finally figure out that repeatedly bombarding her doesn’t help speed things up, and actually adds some confusion. Externally, there is no change. She still sits there, drooping over in the same pose she was in when they arrived. Quirrel is unaware if any of the vines have moved, but he hadn’t paid attention to where they were when they arrived, so doesn’t say anything.

They have taken to alternating between Quirrel and Ghost, waiting at least ten minutes between each. They have learned that Isma seems to ‘hear’ Quirrel better, but that Ghost hears and understands her shifting thoughts better.

Three or four hours later, and they have established that Isma is ferociously angry at Ogrim, which he dejectedly accepts and suggests means he should go, earning him more therapy via kneecapping.

Quirrel is unsure whether she is vaguely aware of what is going on in the room, or if she can pick up more from him than he strictly projects, but a couple of exchanges later Ghost whirls around and smacks Ogrim in the knee again and relays that they are to hunt him down and tie him up if he tries to leave.

For the first time since entering the grove, Ogrim laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It just goes on, and on, and on…
> 
> ♥


	9. Waiting Here for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost and Quirrel rest and recover after their wild adventures with Ogrim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Ok. As discussed, there is a link to the spicy bits! It is fairly minimal and unobtrusive; I went with that simply because I didn’t want to leave anyone who choses _not_ to read it with a big ol’ honking red flare.
> 
> So, at the last sentence before things have been de-spiced, there is a ► that is a hyperlink. That will take you over to the naughty version, basically right where the transition starts.
> 
> I went ahead and put the link _back_ to this work as well, although what was left is short enough that it wasn’t necessary, but I wanted to make sure the technical aspects work for if I need to do this again.
> 
> Fingers crossed!  
>   
> 

#### Quirrel

* * *

Isma’s thoughts stop shifting soon after. Ghost indicates that they think she is tired, that it may be a while before anything changes again, but admit they don’t actually know for certain. They offer to go get Ogrim something to eat and he accepts the offer. Quirrel starts to stand to join them, but Ogrim grabs his hand and whispers, “Please stay, if Ghost is…” and trails off as they nod.

Ghost pulls out their map and shows Quirrel that getting back to Ogrim’s lair is a fairly straight shot and should only take them a couple of hours to get there and back… using the Crystal Heart and swimming in acid.

Quirrel can use the Crystal Heart, although the thought of trying to shoot through the narrow opening with all the nails makes _his_ heart seize up. Ghost has much better clearance. And Quirrel definitely can’t swim in acid.

According to Ogrim, what Ghost ate should have killed them, so that isn’t likely to ever be something he can manage.

So, he sits with Ogrim. Ogrim has moved over to sit against Isma’s legs, leaning into the leaves. Quirrel has become almost certain that some of the vines have moved, albeit barely.

After an hour of not talking much, watching Ogrim lean into the leaves, he is surprised when Ogrim leans over and grabs his arm, pulling him over to sit beside him. He drapes his arm over Quirrel’s shoulders with a sigh before leaning his head back against Isma.

“I don’t think you ever knew how much you meant to Isma,” Ogrim says.

Startled, Quirrel says, “I’m not sure I understand? I know I don’t recall nearly enough of it to be sure, but the emotions are with the memories I do have. I know you and I meshed well fairly quickly; I know we were good friends within the depths of my soul.” Ogrim squeezes his shoulders as Quirrel goes on, “But I didn’t have that with Isma. I’m certain we got along well enough, but it was a friendship of respect and generally liking each other rather than…” and he stops to wave his hands vaguely.

With a snort, Ogrim says, “Love?”

Quirrel almost retorts but realizes that Ogrim is right. “Yes, I suppose it would be love.”

Chuckling, Ogrim says, “For a bug with such a large and loving family, who ran around touting the benefits of love — sex too, but love in general — you were awfully stingy in saying the word itself to others.”

Quirrel scoffs, but Ogrim continues.

“You loved freely and unabashedly, but never wanted to put the word to it.” Another gentle squeeze. “It is good to see that has changed,” he says quietly. “It is something a spouse needs to hear.”

Quirrel nods.

Ogrim laughs. “Are you ever going to correct my assigning you a spouse?”

“Absolutely not. I have been threatened, in writing no less, with getting stabbed in the knee should I attempt to do so.”

Ogrim’s laughter rings out around the grove, and he squeezes Quirrel tight. “The world will be a shorter place once Ghost is done with it!”

Chuckling, Quirrel nods in agreement.

Several minutes pass, and Quirrel leans over so that his head is resting on Ogrim’s shoulder.

“You did more to get me casually accepted into groups other than the Guards during the seven years you were there than Isma or anyone else had succeeded in managing in the twenty years prior,” Ogrim says.

Quirrel starts to sit up and speak, but Ogrim squeezes him again and says, “Be still.”

He settles back with a huff.

“You showed up, full of talent and personality and exuding cheer. Everyone enjoyed being around you, you could manage to find interest in just about any topic that someone wanted to discuss, and you usually remembered enough to carry on the conversation later,” Ogrim murmurs.

Embarrassed, Quirrel starts fiddling with one of the leaves poking up from the ground. He stops when he remembers it might be attached, doesn’t realize when he starts again.

“I have no idea if you truly didn’t recognize who I was, but that is what you always claimed, and you never wavered in insisting you didn’t.” He scoffs. “Perhaps my pride should have been wounded, eh?”

Ogrim shifts. “You did later say that you had heard some bug or another make a comment that angered you, and so you found me in the side room with the bugs who usually socialized with me. You walked right up to me, stuck your hand out, and introduced yourself. When I introduced myself back, you looked like someone had slammed a brick over your head.”

He chuckles. “I just figured you were a good actor.”

He rustles his head against Isma’s leaves. “We were still talking, hours later. We clicked.” Ogrim snickers. “We got into so many pickles! You were a highly creative troublemaker. We aggravated everyone eventually. Isma was often aggravated with you, said I didn’t previously get into so much trouble.”

Quirrel almost catches movement out of the corner of his vision, but sees nothing when he looks.

“But you never forced anything, never dragged me out somewhere I didn’t want to go, never dragged anyone closer. All you did was happen to sit near the edges of the boundaries, and since people wanted to be by you, they ended up by me.” Ogrim sighs. “I didn’t realize it for a couple of years, until Isma pointed it out. I’m not even sure you did it consciously, at least not entirely.”

Quirrel thinks for a few moments, puzzling through chunks of memories that aren’t connected as well as some that are. Following the thread that is Ogrim and their friendship. He shakes his head and says, “I don’t believe it was conscious. You were my friend, and I am a social bug. I think that if I had ever thought you disliked being around other bugs, rather than disliked what other bugs thought of you, I would have handled it different.” He snorts. “Unless I am completely mistaken, we certainly spent enough time just hanging out together that random rumors would start; _Isma_ usually squashed those. I suspect that her aggravation with me would likely spike at those times.”

“Ah, yes!” Ogrim laughs. “It most certainly did.” He shakes his head. “But know that she never suggested I try and do anything differently to squash the rumors.”

He squeezes Quirrel again. “I didn’t need more than what I had; I was content. You didn’t upend my life, or suddenly change how the kingdom perceived me. Friends did not suddenly surround me. But I had a friend who treated me the way Isma had been saying I deserved to be treated, which slowly changed how I thought of the other people in my life. I changed the friends I was surrounded by, and I was happier for it. Isma told me I deserved a better kind of friend; you showed me what that actually _meant_.”

Quirrel has no idea how to respond. He thinks that younger Quirrel would have squirmed and tried to make a joke of it somehow; he also thinks younger Ogrim wouldn’t have sat here and held him and told him these things. But the Quirrel who has spent 300 years unable to form meaningful friendships, distracted and driven forward, wants to cry.

Instead, he leans his head back again and presses it into Ogrim’s shoulder. “I’ve grown mopey in my old age, my friend,” he says quietly.

Ogrim scoffs. “Who hasn’t? I am simply glad you seem to have been granted the spells to considerably slow aging that were given to many loyal retainers.”

Quirrel sighs. “I don’t believe I was, at least not permanently. Monomon had asked the Pale King to imbue those into her mask, to keep me from aging so long as I carried—”

He stops when Ogrim starts shaking his head. “No, dear friend, the spells didn’t work that way.”

“What do you mean? I watched the king cast the spells onto her mask myself.”

“No, you watched him cast spells onto her mask. The protective spells were likely bound to her mask, but those against aging are woven within the body of the bug. Can you imagine what would happen if those were held within an object that could be taken?”

Quirrel shudders. He hadn’t actually thought about it, but he has been a bit busy since that memory returned.

“If you haven’t aged, it was cast upon you. The king told us all that it would be both a blessing and eventually a curse. Even if Hallownest hadn’t fallen, it doesn’t take much thought to see how it could be a curse,” Ogrim finishes quietly.

Nodding, Quirrel agrees.

Seeing movement again, Quirrel turns to look at the vines again. He glares as they most definitely stay perfectly still.

Ogrim chuckles. “I believe that she is fucking with you, my friend.”

The leaves start quivering minutely.

Sighing, Quirrel looks up at the still face bowed over the two of them. It hasn’t changed at all, hasn’t moved, hasn’t changed expression. Her eyes are still closed. He directs a rude gesture in her direction.

Relaxing, he settles against Ogrim as his laughter rings around the grove.

* * *

Ghost shoots into the grove a couple of hours later. He and Ogrim had exchanged more stories, which would occasionally trigger a brief shooting headache that would fade, but he could tell there was an accumulating side effect. He now has a persistent background headache, and his vision is faintly pulsing.

They are awkwardly carrying a medium-sized bundle. Quirrel suddenly feels a little guilty he didn’t suggest they take the backpack, although he doesn’t have any idea how they would have gotten it to stay put.

Ogrim leaps up and asks, “Why didn’t you carry that inside!?” as he rescues them from their burden.

“Anything they carry within them that has liquid slowly becomes contaminated with void,” Quirrel tells him. “While they merely find the flavor it gives distasteful, we both agree that it is probably prudent to not have me — or any other non-void being — consume something that has been contaminated.”

Ghost nods.

“That does sound sensible,” Ogrim responds.

They help Ogrim get settled in, and Quirrel turns to find Ghost glaring at one of the vines.

He chuckles and says, “Yes, they are moving. Extremely slowly, but they are moving.”

Ghost looks over and up at Isma’s still-quiescent face, and then reaches out to touch one of the vine’s leaves. It twitches slightly, and Ghost moves their hand from on top to underneath, gently pressing it into the natural curl of the leaf. Slowly, oh so slowly, the leaf curls around their hand.

Quirrel feels Ogrim’s claw on his shoulder again before he is enveloped in a hug.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Ogrim whispers fiercely.

Releasing Quirrel, Ogrim drops to the ground in front of Ghost. Quirrel sees him start to reach for them to pull them into a hug, but pauses.

Ogrim starts to say, “I would— _ah_ ” and is interrupted by suddenly having an armful of Ghost.

Ogrim wraps Ghost in a hug and then shivers. He chokes out a half-laugh, half-sob and says, “You are startlingly chilly, friend!” and proceeds to squeeze them even tighter. “ _Thank you_.”

Looking up at Quirrel he tells them, “Take care of our silly pillbug, yes?”

Ghost nods fiercely and scrambles up Ogrim’s chest a bit to wrap their arms around his neck and squeeze.

Ogrim huffs and gives them one last squeeze before releasing them, and they hop down.

“ _Visit us_ ,” Ogrim growls at the two of them. He stands up and walks over to Quirrel, who preemptively covers his belly with his hands and so he gets a jab in the chest — centered in the circle of fluke-bites — instead.

Quirrel laughs and snags his friend’s claw. “We shall.” He glances up at Isma and continues, “She can’t kick your ass and make you eat yet, so I expect that if I do not, when she _can_ it will be my ass that gets kicked first.”

His statement is met with the barest shiver of leaves, and he smiles.

* * *

Quirrel and Ghost make their way back through the winding paths. They had discussed the branching paths that led to Kingdom’s Edge as they crossed the shaft down, but decided to come back later. For now, the plan is to get back to the station by the Palace Grounds and rest briefly.

The plan is interrupted when they reach the room with the tree again, and Quirrel realizes how long it has been since he last napped, and then realizes how long it has been since he last truly slept. Groaning at the further delay prior to getting into a hot spring, they set up for the night.

* * *

He feels much better when he wakes up. Ghost is sitting against the tree, drawing in their journal. They look up when he stirs, and put away the journal to come over and give him a hug and kiss. He hums his contentment, framing their face with his hands as he kisses them.

He doesn’t let go when they draw back, rubbing his thumbs at the base of their horns as he just looks at them.

They huff, and lightly touch his face, running their hand from the base of his antenna over to the vestigial one beneath it and resting it there to softly brush it with their thumb.

Leaning forward, they kiss him gently before standing back up and grabbing his hand. Stepping back, they tug on it and he laughs.

“All right, yes, I’m getting up!”

Ghost packs up camp while he eats breakfast, and then the two of them take time to check over his wounds. Despite the neglect, they have continued to heal quickly. The self-inflicted slash is now just a line across the softer flesh of his abdomen. The cut in his carapace is under the patch but won’t be ‘healed’ until he molts again. The ring of bitemarks on his chest has healed to the point that the shallowest are almost gone, and the two deepest have scabbed over into small annoyances.

Satisfied, they set out again for the station.

* * *

It is time for Quirrel to eat again when they reach the station, and Quirrel is mildly confused when Ghost prods him to set up the fire in the ring, and then unceremoniously dumps more wood on it when his is apparently too small.

“You can’t just dump it on all haphazardly!” he yelps, grabbing the edges of the various branches and wood before they catch, rearranging them so that there will be enough airflow to keep it going.

They huff and then shrug, unrepentant.

Quirrel continues to be confused as they wander around while he cooks, rearranging some of the silk the two of them had been using as bedding before, folding it into neater piles and shoving it closer to the fire, ignoring his query except to shrug when he asks why.

Finally giving up on getting a reasonable (or any) answer, he shakes his head and focuses on his cooking. He adds a small pot to brew some tea, then sits back to watch the flames.

Ghost finally joins him, hauling out the pad and shoving it up to his side so they can lean against him as he finishes up the cooking and starts to eat. He leans over to kiss their horn with a chuckle, wrapping his arm around them.

They continue to lean against him as he eats, occasionally swiping the tea to take a sip or stealing bites of his salad and soup.

Setting the dishes beside the fire as he finishes, he leans back on one hand and pulls them in a little closer to playfully nibble the tip of their horn. They huff and rub their face against his side before turning and wrapping an arm across his belly, hugging him.

Content, he sits and watches the fire for several minutes as they hold each other.

* * *

Ghost eventually gives him one final squeeze and stands up. He leans forward to grab the dishes, but they step in front of him and pick them up. Perplexed, he watches as they simply set them aside again a little further away.

“Ghost, is something wrong?”

They shake their head and reach under their cloak, pulling out a bundle of folded silk. It is an intensely deep cobalt blue, with a slight iridescence. It is _gorgeous_.

Ghost hands Quirrel the bundle.

It puts the silk they have been using to absolute shame. Handling this material is like holding the embodiment of what silk _should_ be. He has never felt anything so wonderful, and a delighted “Oooh!” escapes.

Running his hands over the outside, relishing the texture, he whispers, “This is exquisite, Ghost; I’ve never felt anything like it. Where did you find this?”

As he sits back to unfold it, Ghost huffs and points towards one of the back areas. They sign, “Here. We here last time. I see, I think you. I think you like, I take give you later.” They pause and think, then sign, “I think give you good happy, big happy.”

“It’s beautiful, I love it. Thank you.” 

Ghost steps forward and takes one corner of the fabric. He stops and waits, curious as to what they are going to do. They pause when he stops, then realize he is waiting for them. They take a second corner and then walk around him, draping it over his shoulders. They stop behind his back and lift his kerchief slightly, giving them room to pull some of the silk up and under it to brush against his head. He shivers when it slips under his antennae where they are tucked down — _gods_ , exquisite doesn’t do it justice. He shifts the bundle when they tug their end, so that more of the fabric unfurls and he shivers again as they draw it along.

Completing their circuit, they drape the end over his shoulder and let go. They step back and look at him, and he draws the fabric in closer. He sets the rest of the bundle between his legs, and picks up the other corner of it, drawing it over the back of one of his hands, reveling in the sensation. He switches directions, pulling it across his other hand with a happy sigh, moving his fingers under the fabric, watching as it shimmers in the light.

Picking up the end again, he pulls it up and rubs it against his chin, then brings it around and bunches it up to stroke against his cheek. He hazily wonders if pillbugs as a species might be willing to take up cocooning.

Quirrel looks up when he sees Ghost move closer. They give a small huff and then step into his lap and rest their forehead against his, placing their hands on the sides of his face, pressing the silk in and against him. He hums in blissful happiness, and he feels their quiver of laughter.

Pulling his head down, they stretch up and tilt their head to kiss the top of his mask, then huff and start to untie his kerchief. Letting it fall behind him, Ghost tugs the edges of the fabric up to form a hood over his head, although his antennae are outside of it. He sighs as it slips up under them, the contrast between the textures from his kerchief to the delicate softness of the silk intensified against the tips. [►](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29834991#ch9smutlink)

Ghost leans to the side and wraps their arms around his neck, silk and all. He shuffles his hands and arms about and manages to get freed up enough to clasp them in a tight hug. They turn their head, and he feels them nuzzle against his cheek through the silk. They shift forward and nuzzle again. The sensation is delightful, the silk transferring their movements into slippery folds radiating out from where they are kissing him, and he tilts his head up and to the side to give them some room, humming encouragement.

Ghost presses in, bringing their hand up against his other cheek and caressing it; the silk shifts with the movement and he hums with a tiny shudder as he loses himself in the sensation.

They pull their hand forward, thumb grazing his mandible, and he reaches up with a happy sigh to capture it. He turns his head and presses their hand against his mouth and gives it a little kiss, then lets go as they continue to nuzzle and kiss his cheek and neck.

Returning their hand to his cheek, they press the silk back up against his face and then draw it forward and down, using their thumb to softly rub the silk against his mandible. Hazily wondering exactly how far they intend to take this, knowing that he is rapidly approaching his limit where stopping will transition from ‘frustrating but it was fun’ to simply ‘frustrating,’ he moans softly and works his hand up under their cloak, kneading their back.

The silk glides across his belly, and his moan transitions to more of a growl as the sensations drive straight into his belly. Recognizing that this was not intentional but that he _has_ to stop, he gasps and starts to pull back.

Ghost follows him.

Groaning, wondering how under all the holy stars Ghost is missing that they need to _stop_ , he manages a strangled whisper. “ _Ghost_ , I need you to stop, this is exquisite torture…”

They finally pull back, but not nearly far enough. His hand is clamped around their back, and he tells himself he needs to let go; when they don’t try and move away, it doesn’t happen.

Quirrel is breathing hard, and when Ghost shifts, their movement ripples through the silk wrapped around him.

Flooded with intense sensations from every point of contact, Quirrel groans again and forces himself still, vision unfocused. Unseeing, his first hint that Ghost has moved back in is their mouth brushing up against his mandibles. He jumps — causing the silk to twist and wrap around him even tighter — and Ghost once again follows him, tongue flickering cold against the underside of his mandibles, pushing up until it reaches the inner ones and questing further before they pull back again.

The small, quiet corner of Quirrel’s brain that is still functioning on logic has been not so quiet, and when Ghost starts to remove his mask it finally gets the message through that Ghost’s actions are deliberate, that they had made a bed for the two of them _while he watched_ , and had very obviously intended to stop here for a while.

Rocking forward and pushing himself against them, he murmurs, “You have _no intention_ of stopping, do you.”

Feeling them quiver with laughter as they twist to the side, _very deliberately_ rubbing against him, they lean over to set his mask down. Humming as they stand back up, he leans over and stretches to reach for his backpack, which is barely in reach. Snagging it and dragging it over, he yanks one of the side pockets untied and digs out a small packet.

“We haven’t discussed if I need these,” he whispers.

Ghost looks at the packet in brief puzzlement, then huffs and grabs it. They look at him and then brace themself before shoving him backwards, grabbing his neck as he topples over and following him down.

* * *

Mindlessly happy, Quirrel lays in the silk and rubs his face against Ghost’s horn, humming his contentment. They huff and turn to poke him in the chest.

He kisses their horn and then shuffles down so that he is at face level with them.

They gaze into his eyes, then lean forward and kiss him, and he hums again, touching their face with his antennae, brushing their horns.

Ghost leans into him and then rolls back, hitching themself so that they are laying on their back. Twisting awkwardly, they poke him again and then pull something out to show him. Propping himself up on his elbow, he sees that they are showing him _two_ somethings, and that they are his.

Groaning, he briefly covers his eyes and then chuckles.

“I’d wondered where you tucked those after grabbing them. Those are spermatophores. Not all pillbugs make them, but obviously I do.”

Ghost looks vaguely non-plussed and then lifts them up to where they can see them better, holding one up to look through it. Quirrel has no idea what to think of this intense investigation of his reproductive emissions, and so he just babbles on.

“Several species of spiders also form spermatophores, as do— _oof!_ ”

Apparently Ghost isn’t interested in the finer details of multi-species reproduction.

“They get stored until the pillbug in question wishes to use them to fertilize eggs,” he says. When he isn’t kicked this time, he continues, “Egg-bearing pillbugs have two reproductive tracts, one on each side, that lead into the marsupium when said pillbug chooses to form one during a molt.” He takes one of the little jelly-like balls from Ghost. “One for each side,” he chuckles, “with the side benefit of two orgasms. _Oof!_ ”

Deciding that ongoing education is needlessly risky, he leans over and tosses the little ball into the fire, where it hisses briefly and then puffs away. He brushes a kiss onto Ghost’s forehead, and then settles back, again propping his head on his hand as they continue to poke and prod at the one remaining.

Shaking his head, he says, “They are fairly resilient until they dry out a bit, then it’ll fracture easily and make a mess.”

They huff again, and gently squeeze it between two fingers. Apparently satisfying some unfathomable fragment of their curiosity, they release it and hold it up for him to take. He disposes of it in the same way he did the first, placing another kiss as he settles in again.

Resting his hand on their abdomen, he rubs gently before kissing the side of their face, and they shiver slightly and then sigh, wrapping their arms around his hand and pulling it into a firm hug. He chuckles and then lays back down beside them, tucking his face into the side of their head as he says, “Let me know when you are ready to pack up. I think I’m going to let my mind melt for a while.”

Ghost shakes with laughter for a moment, then pats his hand and hugs it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. Sex!
> 
> Spermatophores are awesome in my opinion. It takes something that I find messy and vaguely off-putting and encapsulates it into a neat little package, or at least it looks like it does.
> 
> Pillbug reproductive biology as a whole is wild to try and wrap my head around.


	10. I Feel like Everything I Sow is being Swept Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirrel and Ghost make some plans, and head out across the City of Tears to find caffeine, sell some items, fix a nail, and deal with an old ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> ♡♡♡ OMG, I got fan art submissions!! ♡♡♡
> 
> See the end notes for some lovely work that makes me super-happy!!  
>   
> 

#### Ghost

* * *

Quirrel is laying beside them, his head tucked against the side of theirs, his hand on their abdomen, ‘letting his mind melt.’ This apparently consists of random happy sighs, the occasional nuzzle, and humming.

He is radiating happiness and contentment, and they are basking.

If they could hum, they would. They suspect that if — _when_ they decide to do this again, letting their mind melt afterwards is likely an appropriate response. This time, however, their mind is running fast and won’t relax.

Quirrel had warned them it wouldn’t be anything like what the novels claimed, which they had already known since no novel they have run across has represented their biology or anatomy. He had also said to expect it to be weird and awkward, which it hadn’t been. They suspect that this is because they were with Quirrel, who unabashedly enjoys sex and in general has no shame about that fact; who can make them laugh as they both sort out Ghost’s anatomy and responses, and leave them with the happy thought that he treated the endeavor no differently than he would have with any other bug he’d chosen to have sex with.

The part that had surprised them the most was that they had had _fun_ , beyond the expected end goal. They can easily see participating simply to watch and interact; could see themself having fun helping Quirrel be happy even if they don’t actually want to do it themself.

Neither of those were something they saw in novels much, or that other bugs talked about when relating their sexual adventures. The novels and bragging all seemed to revolve around the attraction, the arousal, the stress, buildup, and whatnot. As if all of that was _required_ for the act to be pleasurable, or made it better somehow.

Quirrel has never claimed that, and from the one or two times they have heard him mutter “oh for crying out loud, get _on_ with it” while reading his novels they think it isn’t a view he susbscribes to.

Unsurprisingly, it had also definitely been different with a partner.

A part of them—

“Ghost,” Quirrel murmurs.

Startled, they turn their head towards him as far as they can without heaving themself over to turn past their horn.

“You aren’t very relaxed,” he chuckles.

They huff, then shake their head. They _want_ to be, but have recognized that it isn’t going to happen. They just wish that they hadn’t disturbed _his_ mind melt.

He nuzzles the side of their head, and they feel him kiss their shoulder and hum.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?”

They aren’t sure. After a moment, they shrug, figuring that is better than the lie of ‘no.’

Quirrel huffs a soft laugh and then kisses their shoulder.

“Do you know what you want to talk about?”

They snort and then shake their head.

He nuzzles them again before asking, “Do you want me to wait until you have a chance to figure it out, or may I ask my deeply burning question?”

Ghost huffs a laugh and squeezes his hand against them. They know exactly what he wants to ask, and wonder if it will include what he _should_ ask, which is why the fuck didn’t they warn him.

“Ask,” they sign.

Quirrel laughs and asks, “Do you normally sprout tendrils like that?”

When they shrug, he rolls over on top of them, propping himself on his elbows so that his face is just over theirs, his chest pressing them into the pillow, his belly between their feet.

He kisses them softly and then says, “That is not a particularly _reassuring_ answer, love.”

Ghost sighs and nods.

Quirrel pushes himself up so he can look at them. After a moment he quietly asks, “Has it happened before?”

They nod.

“But not always?”

They shake their head.

He thinks for a few moments. “Is it a recent change?”

Ghost knows that it depends on how you define ‘recent.’ The answer is ‘it only started after the Hollow Knight screamed,’ but based on their other conversations they know Quirrel considers that recent, even though it was over a year ago. They don’t think he’s wrong, so they nod.

He shifts, and they feel him start caressing one of their horns with his hand.

“Does it worry you?”

Ghost wobbles a hand.

Quirrel drops down and brushes a kiss on their cheek.

Quirrel sighs and thinks, continuing to brush his hand along their horn. “Has it happened every time since the first time?”

They shake their head.

“Is there a pattern?”

They shake their head again.

“One, two or three: is recent measured in weeks, months, or years?” he asks.

Ghost holds up three fingers.

“How many years?”

They hold up one finger, and then hold both of their hands slightly apart from each other.

Another pause, presumably while he puzzles that out, and then he asks, “A little over a year ago?”

They nod.

“Was there anything—” and he stops, tensing up. “That lines up with when I felt drawn this way.”

They nod.

“When you said you felt the Hollow Knight cry out,” he says quietly.

Ghost nods again.

He drops his head down again, resting his forehead on theirs. They reach up to put their hands against the sides of his head, and start brushing their thumbs along his cheekpads.

Shuddering, he whispers, “Does it hurt?”

Surprised, Ghost shakes their head emphatically.

Exhaling sharply, he says, “ _Good_.”

Tilting his head, he kisses them again before pushing himself back up. “Is there a reason you didn’t _warn_ me?”

They wobble their hand, and he sighs.

Ghost signs, “Wait, I need think sign.”

He leans forward and kisses them gently, then waits.

“I not know all sign to tell you,” they sign.

Quirrel huffs a laugh and asks, “But you don’t want me to move?”

They brush their hand against his cheek and nod. His weight on top of them is comfortable, soothing.

“I not know I look different—” and they pause to wave their hands in what has apparently become their way of indicating they don’t know a sign “—sex happy time. I know different—” they wave their hands again “—think in happy, think in good. I not know sign think in me, think happy, think sad, think upset, think good.”

Ghost has no idea how comprehensible that was, although Quirrel has gotten good at filling in the gaps. They also hadn’t realized how lopsided the signs they know for various feelings are, which is mildly depressing.

“You didn’t know it looked different, just that it feels different to you?”

Damn, he’s good. They huff and nod, then grab his face to pull him down for a kiss.

He chuckles, and is smiling when he pushes back up. “I suppose I wouldn’t know if my carapace did something like suddenly start changing colors, especially if it only lasted a second or two. A person isn’t exactly able to focus on something besides an orgasm while it’s happening; it tends to make it end.”

Since that had been exactly what had happened when they had decided to try and see if they _could_ see a difference, they shrug and nod.

Quirrel snorts. “Well, they were certainly friendly enough.”

Ghost huffs a laugh and touches his face again.

He moves the hand that has been brushing their horn to start brushing their forhead, and smiles again.

“If you decide we do this again,” he says softly, “I say we don’t worry about it unless it starts causing problems of some sort.”

Recognizing an indirect question, Ghost snorts. “Yes, more sex later.”

Quirrel starts shaking his head, and they gently grab his cheeks.

“I agree not big worry. I not think I stop small worry. Difficult to not worry some.”

He sighs. “I can understand that,” he says and then whispers, “I wasn’t probing, although I can see why you would think I was.”

They believe him — so they nod — but suspect his subconscious would likely have a different truth. Ghost sighs as they reach up and pull him back down into another kiss before wraping their arms around his neck and pulling him the rest of the way down into a hug.

Quirrel extends his arms out on the ground over their heads and lays on Ghost, turning his head to tuck his face into the side of their head.

After a few moments they feel him finally relax, and he hums quietly.

* * *

The two of them lay like that for a little over five minutes before Ghost notices Quirrel is starting to get chilly.

They start to move, but he makes a small noise and says, “Please, not yet.” He kisses their shoulder. “I know I’m getting cold,” he murmurs, “but there’s no danger to it here. I’ll warm up when we gather our things, and the room is warm.” He nuzzles the side of their head and whispers, “Please?”

Hesitating, they relax and then nod. He’s right, and the only time it has been an issue is when he hasn’t realized he is getting chilly _and_ there isn’t a way to warm up. The fire is still going, and one of the pots is still close to it and has hot water for tea.

Wrapping their arms back around him, they nuzzle back and do their damnedest not to feel guilty.

* * *

Quirrel is shivering near-constantly — although not deeply — by the time he rolls off of Ghost to lay beside them, his hand on their abdomen. They think he should have stopped a lot sooner, but decide that the cuddle must have been more important than they realized when they see he’s been crying.

They hitch themself over, then scoot down so they can use the pillow to prop their head and face him more directly. Unfortunately, this places his face out of reach, so they tug on his arm until he huffs and shifts down.

He sighs as they put their hand on his face and wipe at the tear tracks.

“Seeing Ogrim again was wonderful,” he says quietly. “Knowing he is alive, here…”

He shivers again, but they are positive it isn’t from being chilly this time, and now believe some of the shivering earlier was from crying, not cold.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as the tears start up again.

They rest their hand on his cheek, and gently rub their thumb under his eye, catching them. What little they know of grieving tells them he has done nowhere near enough of it.

Ghost shakes their head. Taking their hand back they sign, “You big sad, not enough time. Cry not bad, you need to cry. I here, I with you. I love you. I know, I understand take time. I hug you, I wait, you cry. We go later.”

Quirrel had started shaking his head as they signed, but the tears hadn’t stopped.

“I don’t _want_ to cry,” he whispers. “Not right now, this was… I wanted this to be _happy_ , not…” he shakes his head again.

They definitely don’t have the signs for ‘emotional release begets more emotional release’ and figure he doesn’t want to hear it anyhow.

They sit up and then push his shoulder when he also tries to sit up. Grabbing the pillow they were lying on and the silk that had been wadded up behind it, they stuff the pillow against his belly and dump the folded silk over his shoulders. They stand up and fetch the rest of the bedding that had been shoved away, and dump that over his shoulders as well before tugging it around so that it covers him. He has put his hands over his eyes and started hiccupping sobs, trying to make the crying stop.

Pushing the pillow back up, pulling some of the silk down over it and his chest, they push their way into his arms.

Ghost lays there and listens to Quirrel try to stop crying for a couple of minutes, simply leaning against him. He gives up with a spasmodic jerk, sobbing as he wraps his arms around them, pulling their head into his chest and curling up in a ball around them, rocking.

* * *

Quirrel cries for a long time, curled tightly around Ghost. Ghost is inclined to stay and sleep here, but is certain that Quirrel wants to get back to… wants to go _home_. He had started calling it that within a day or two, and barring one or two times has called it their home since. They don’t know if he is one of those bugs who simply calls wherever they happen to be staying ‘home’ or if it’s deeper. They suspect it’s some of both.

As far as they are concerned, ‘home’ is wherever Quirrel says it is. Wherever Quirrel wants to be with them.

His sobs have devolved to random hiccups, and he isn’t curled so tightly around them. They scoot up so they can touch his face, and he relaxes his arms for a moment before wrapping them up again and then sitting up.

He relaxes his arms again once he is sitting, having pulled them against him and tucked his head over their shoulder.

“Tactical preemptive strike,” he mumbles, then hiccups again. “I want to go _home_ , I want the hot springs, I want to hold you in the hot springs, where I can hold you as long as I want.” He’s whispering by the end, and they’ve wrapped their arms around his neck.

Ghost nods, and rubs the back of his head as he calms.

* * *

Quirrel has shed the hip pack and unbuckled the backpack by the time the elevator reaches the top. He drops them by the wall and grabs Ghost, mumbling something about ‘self-preservation.’ They wrap their arms around his neck as he walks across the room and into the springs. He stands there for a few moments before turning around and simply falling backwards, splashing down with a laugh as Ghost scrambles back so that he doesn’t dump them. When they try to clamber off, he grabs them tightly and growls “ _No_.”

Apparently, he meant that bit about holding them as long as he wanted to in the hot spring.

* * *

Ghost and Quirrel spend the next day simply existing. Quirrel hadn’t shown any inclination towards even getting up the next morning, and Ghost hadn’t planned on it, wanting a day to just _not_. By the time Quirrel realizes Ghost is going to let him just lay there, it’s time for lunch. They sit and watch in amusement as he putters around, griping about the wasted morning. They aren’t sure how you can waste something by enjoying it.

The afternoon is spent with Ghost emptying their ‘internal storage space’ — as Quirrel has deemed it with much snickering — as he organizes his ‘external storage devices.’ Ghost has a feeling they are going to want to whack him with something once they figure out what the fuck has him so amused. In the meantime, his mirth makes them happy, so they don’t try too hard to understand.

Quirrel folds the silk they had given him into a neater bundle, sighing in contentment and randomly rubbing it against himself. They had known he would appreciate it, but his absolute delight makes them warm all over. Up here in the light of the lumaflies, the blue is far more iridescent than it had been in the dim station. They have no idea what either of them can do with it beyond use it as a blanket or a wrap, and wish they did. Neither of them wear clothes or robes, although they think Quirrel would look _damn_ fine in a cape.

Once everything is mostly sorted and packed again, Ghost debates discussing where they should head next, then decides to bully Quirrel into reading to them for the rest of the evening. This takes amazingly little bullying, involves copious amounts of cuddling, and includes a decent amount of kissing; they therefore count it as a resounding success.

* * *

They are looking over the map, trying to decide between a few options. Ghost has mentioned the two they think are most logical (going to what they now know is Kingdom’s Edge or heading back to the Seer to figure out if they fucked up when Quirrel accepted Essence through the Dream Nail). As far as they are concerned, both are of similar importance, and both are going to be exhausting.

If they go back to the Seer, they probably shouldn’t go until they’ve made it to 700 essence. Quirrel received 400, which easily puts them over the 700 _if_ the two pools are additive. If they are _separate_ , then Ghost needs to get a little over 50 more. The quickest and… well, they doubt it is anywhere near the easiest. Which probably means not the _quickest_ either. But they know where the Soul Master’s body _is_ , versus needing to run around.

They doubt that finding Hornet in an area they haven’t even entered yet — much less explored — will be either fast _or_ easy. So far Quirrel hasn’t generally managed to remember how to get around an area, even if he remembers bits and pieces. The memories aren’t connected enough for it to be useful. The Royal Waterways are a striking example — although to be fair, they are confusing as fuck even _with_ a map.

“Another option could be to go see what the Soul Master will be like, and we can use the time traveling through the city to retrieve some coffee that you can drink,” Quirrel says.

They aren’t quite sure what they think of that idea. They don’t think Quirrel understands the depth of the anger the Soul Master generated. They aren’t sure they can _convey_ it either, although taking him through the Sanctum will likely give him some perspective.

Ghost writes, “You haven’t seen the Sanctum. You haven’t seen what was done there. What the Soul Master sanctioned, did. \- - - I walked away from that fight for a reason. If I start that Dream, I am not walking away from it until I have finished him.”

They feel him tense up as he reaches the end of what they said.

“That’s… unusually vindictive for you,” he says quietly.

They nod. “You will understand once you have been there. Vindictive barely scratches the surface of my rage.”

“Ghost…”

They shake their head and continue, “The depth of the anger I touched while in there terrifies me. Knowing you are here, to come back to? I want to come back. \- - - But there is something within me, or the potential within me, to become lost to a monster within the void.”

“ _Ghost_ , you aren’t that kind of—” Quirrel starts, and Ghost sharply swipes their hand out to the side.

“NO. You haven’t seen me that kind of angry. I haven’t been that angry more than three or four times in my life. \- - - There is something here, within Hallownest, that I can touch, that I can reach, while I’m that angry. A power, a strength. \- - - I don’t know that it is filled with rage, but the only time I touched it was when I wanted to destroy everything around me.”

Quirrel has gone still. He shifts after a few moments, and they feel him lightly kiss one of their horns.

“You’re right, I haven’t seen you filled with that kind of rage,” he says quietly. “And I was going to say something like ‘that isn’t something one bug can do.’”

He kisses them again. “But you aren’t a bug,” he whispers. “So, I think me trying to dismiss what you are telling me, before I even let you finish telling me, is extraordinarily short-sighted as well as rude.”

He hesitates, then pulls them closer against him and leans forward to kiss the top of their head.

“The Sanctum was always just a little… off. I vaguely recall having been there at least once when I was still with the City Guards. All I remember at the moment is that I wanted to leave the whole time I was there, and that I cut my shift early and went home to shower. That I spent a long time in the shower crying, and not knowing why.”

Quirrel rests his face against their horn before continuing. “Lurien spent a lot of time trying to figure out what was going on in there. Everything was always too perfect, too organized when he went there. Any time he sent someone else, they didn’t seem to fully remember what they saw. There were always some questions they couldn’t answer in a way that made sense. They would be able to fully recall most of the visit… but not all. When he sent more than one person, the parts of the visit each individual couldn’t account for didn’t match up time-wise, but no one thought they had been split up.”

He shakes his head. “Most of what I know is from what I picked up when he would visit Monomon in her office and they didn’t happen to ask me to leave. He would come to her so he could vent, complain, bounce ideas around, and she respected his privacy.”

Reaching around them, he touches the Soul Sanctum on their map, then taps a blue marker they have at the top of a small spire. “What are the blue ones again?”

Ghost stores the slate and pulls out a fancy key, then taps the marker with it. They feel him nod.

“I want to avoid a repeat of what happened with the Vessel, with that Dream fight,” he says quietly. “I understand that you wanted to free them, release their spirit, and I believe that was ultimately a good and kind goal.”

They shiver, relatively certain where he is going with his thought. They expect that they will agree with him — in the abstract.

“But this doesn’t sound like it is a fight you will be having because you want to help,” he whispers. “It is a fight because you want to destroy, erase, eradicate.” He kisses them again. “I am certain that what you found there is evil and needs cleansed. But submerging yourself into that toxic mind, surrounding yourself with his corruption and taint…”

His arms spasm around them and he shudders. “Doing that again and again for five hours will only stoke your anger, inflame your rage. Open you up to this force you say is here, that can subsume you.”

Another kiss as they stare blankly at the map, listening to him weave a vision that makes their shell crawl.

“I want _you_ , Ghost,” he whispers fiercely. “I want the Ghost who helps people, who laughs at my silly jokes and douses me in the hot springs and takes time to dig grubs out of the damnedest places and takes time to listen to silly dung beetles tell stories and holds me and loves me and…”

His breath is shaky as he inhales. “Waiting to have this fight won’t diminish whatever it is you fear you will do or become when confronting him again.” He squeezes them. “You need to decide that you aren’t going to let him poison you, drag you down with him.”

Quirrel pauses, likely waiting for them to respond. After a few moments, they give him a minuscule nod.

“I need you to tell me that you will stop if it doesn’t go well. I need you to be willing to listen to me if I tell you I think you are losing touch. And we are going to upgrade your damn nail first.”

Ghost huffs a small laugh. They start to wrap their arms around themself but run into Quirrel’s where he still has his around their middle. So, they cross theirs over his before grabbing their sides and pulling tight, shivering. They sit there for a while and think. Arguing with themself, so they don’t argue with Quirrel later. He doesn’t say anything more, occasionally rubbing his cheek against their horn or kissing it. Letting them argue with themself.

Eventually, they nod.

* * *

By adding the trip to the Nailsmith, it changes from being a day-long adventure into a three day (or more) trek. The Nailsmith is on the other damn end of the City of Tears, and taking a stag station doesn’t particularly help, especially if the goal is to return to the coffee shop.

Having discovered they like it, Ghost wants coffee they can drink without needing to be pried off of a ceiling or feeling like they are vibrating apart.

Ghost also forgot to ask the Nailsmith how much the next reforging was going to cost them. They have the two pale ore, but not very much geo. So now a side trip to Lemm is also in the works.

Quirrel perks up at the mention of another non-infected bug and speculates away, trying to deduce out of the ether where Lemm came from, how long he has been here, why he isn’t infected, and a whole host of other questions that Ghost not only doesn’t know the answer to but hadn’t even thought of asking.

They shudder.

Lemm is either going to strangle Quirrel for all the questions or tie him up and never let him go while he asks questions of his own.

Ghost is tempted to have Quirrel stay here while they go sort out their damn nail by themself.

* * *

Traveling across the city, Ghost doesn’t feel like pushing the pace. Listening to Quirrel randomly ramble about some little area or another they run across is nice, although Ghost can tell that the fact that everything he knew is gone hits him a couple of times.

They spend the night in one of the random apartments, and Quirrel holds them while he weeps quietly. When he falls asleep, he is still holding them tight.

It takes a couple of hours to get to Lemm’s shop once they get going again after sleeping. Quirrel has been quiet, without the little stories from the day before. They take his hand as they ride the elevator up to the shop, and he grips it tight. He kneels down as the elevator clangs and rattles to a stop, looking at them closely.

Perplexed, they sign, “You ok?”

He sighs and then shakes his head.

“I think I am going to be paranoid about meeting bugs here for a long time, love,” he says softly.

Gods, they hadn’t even thought of the migraines. They are positive that Lemm isn’t from Hallownest from before, based on what he has said. They had only been paying partial attention when Quirrel was speculating about him, and hadn’t realized there may have been a deeper fear.

They cup his face in their hands and step into his arms, pulling him down for a kiss and then wrapping him in a hug for a few moments.

Stepping back, they sign, “You not know him. He not here before, you not know him. He not give you migraine.”

He nods, then reaches forward, gently wraps his fingers around the base of their horns, pulls them against his mask, and holds them there. Sighing, he kisses them before glancing up and then practically disappearing as he leaps up and in front of them in a defensive stance, nail in hand.

Ghost might have to agree with Ogrim’s theoretical younger trainees — that damn near looked like a teleport to them.

Leaning sideways to see around Quirrel’s legs, they wave at Lemm, who is standing by his shop door and just staring, agape.

“Ahhh…” Quirrel says, relaxing his stance and sheathing his nail.

“‘Ahhh?’ _That’s_ what you have to say about accosting a shopkeep in front of their own damn store?” Lemm glares at Ghost. “Brilliant wit your date has. Store is closed, come back later.”

Quirrel straightens up and in an affronted tone says, “Now just wait a minute!”

“Don’t have to,” Lemm retorts, slamming the door behind him. “Nor do I have to wait a second,” he continues as he turns around to lock the door. “Or a moment, or even a smidge.” Facing them again, he points a finger at Quirrel. “Never seen you before, don’t care if I see you again.”

Ghost sighs.

“How under the stars do you maintain a store if you run off all the customers?” Quirrel demands.

“I don’t.” Lemm walks towards them and then pushes by to use the elevator.

“ _What!?_ ”

“Customers are a pain in the ass,” Lemm says, then shoves the lever. The elevator starts going down in a cacophony of grinding rattles. He points at Ghost as he disappears. “You damn well better stay clean, none of that shit like last time.”

Listening as the elevator makes its dissonant disappearance while Quirrel stares in astonishment, Ghost shakes their head. They maybe should have tried to explain Lemm to Quirrel, but words had utterly failed them.

* * *

Ghost had been tempted to put on the Defender’s Crest and just camp outside of Lemm’s door until they heard the elevator and swap it back out, but had refrained. Lemm is a reliable source of Geo, and while tweaking him can be fun, they don’t want to truly aggravate him. Instead, they harass Quirrel some before digging out the novel and the pad and sitting on him until he gives in and starts reading.

Lemm returns about an hour later. Quirrel tenses up when the elevator starts grinding its way back up, and Ghost elbows him before grabbing the book and standing up. They hear him mutter “ _Fine_ ” as he stands up and folds the pad, glaring at them and handing them the pad as the elevator clangs to a halt.

“You’re still here,” Lemm says as he trundles past.

“Unfortunately,” Quirrel mutters. Ghost smacks his leg far more gently than he probably deserves.

“Nice big city,” Lemm tells him as he unlocks his door. “Plenty of other hallways to sit and make out in, no need to use this one.”

Ghost glares at Quirrel, who glares back but keeps his mandibles shut.

They follow Lemm into his shop, and Quirrel stops dead as he sees the shelves of artifacts and trinkets before slowly turning around to gape at the collection.

“Don’t touch anything,” Lemm says as Ghost walks up to the counter.

Quirrel turns around and glares at Lemm again. “Do you have any idea what you have for sale here?”

“Nope.”

“You are trying to make a profit off of the deaths of millions!” Quirrel cries out.

“Nope.”

“What do you _mean_ , ‘Nope’? These are the relics from bugs’ homes and lives!”

“Are they here to be pissed off about it, or to file a report with the local constabulary?” Lemm snorts. “I’m quivering as I await the arrest warrant.”

Ghost briefly covers their eyes as Quirrel splutters for a few moments.

“Selling these items isn’t right!”

“Glad to hear it, although I’d love to hear your supporting logic. Wait, no I wouldn’t.”

Sighing, Ghost walks over to Quirrel and pokes him in the leg to get his attention.

“I don’t condone this!” he exlaims to them.

Ghost pokes him again, then signs “He not sell. He purchase, not sell.”

Quirrel stares at Ghost for a few moments, then throws his arms up and cries, “ _Why??_ ”

Ghost shrugs.

“You have anything to sell me, or are you just here to inflict your boyfriend on me? In which case, consider me afflicted and scram.”

Ghost snorts and turns back to Lemm. “You asshole some time.”

“Oh, so _now_ you talk? Wonderful. Let me guess, you know how to write too.”

They huff and pull out the slate. “You want me to tell you you’re an asshole this way too? Quirrel used to live here, he might have answers you want.”

Quirrel starts to object as he reads over their shoulder, but Ghost finishes and turns the slate around anyhow.

Lemm stares at the slate. “Nice handwriting. That what he told you? Didn’t take you for gullible, place has been dead for centuries.”

Ghost snorts and starts writing as Quirrel objects again.

“Why would he just _buy_ stuff? That makes no sense!”

“Too damn old to crawl around for relics when I can pay perfectly lithe and willing wanderers. Preferably _quiet_ ones.” Lemm glares pointedly.

Ghost flips the slate. “I am satisfied with the evidence he has presented. You can collect your own, you claim to want knowledge.”

Lemm levels Ghost a look. “Fine.” He glares at Quirrel instead. “Name the Five Great Knights.”

Ghost collapses to the floor in silent laughter, knowing Lemm doesn’t know the answer and it was an idiotic choice since Quirrel could say _anything_ and Lemm would have no clue if it was true or not. He just wants the answer that badly.

Quirrel and Lemm both look at them, and must decide that they aren’t having problems because they go back to glaring at each other.

Quirrel crosses his arms. “Ogrim, Dryya, Isma, Ze’mer, Hegemol. You want their designations too?” he snaps.

Lemm stares at Quirrel, apparently figuring out his conundrum. After a moment he goes back to glaring at Ghost, who is still sitting on the ground and chuckling silently. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”

Quivering, Ghost nods cheerfully.

“I passed your question, now answer mine. Why are you stealing and looting from this kingdom?” Quirrel asks sharply.

“ _Who am I stealing from?_ ” Lemm bellows. “There is no one left! No one cares but you!”

Deciding that the two of them are running themselves in circles, Ghost stands up and walks over to one of the metal shelves and slams their nail against it; it makes a very satisfactory «twang» that causes both Quirrel and Lemm to jump

They both start to talk again, and Ghost slams their nail back into the shelf and glares.

Once they think Lemm and Quirrel will keep quiet while they write, Ghost starts writing again.

“Quirrel: Lemm isn’t profiteering, he is studying. He seeks relics to learn from them.” Ghost is standing where they can both read what they have to say, but is watching Quirrel. They hear Lemm draw a breath and pull their nail again, looking at him instead and glaring. He mutters something they don’t quite catch and resumes glaring.

Quirrel has the routine down. He is still glaring at them, but he waits for them to have their say, albeit impatiently. It’s one of the reasons they try using sign even when the writing would be far clearer — there isn’t dead time while they erase and write.

“He’s good at it. Nothing I’ve learned from you or digging around contradicts anything he has told me. \- - - You enjoy tales of kingdoms and bugs, how they lived, what they thought, what they knew, what they believed.” Quirrel hunches in slightly, pulling his arms in around himself tighter. “When no one is left to tell those tales, pass along that knowledge, it falls to bugs like Lemm to piece it together. \- - - It’s been 300 years. He wouldn’t be here, doing this, if Hallownest was alive. \- - - He wasn’t expecting someone to come back home. It isn’t fair to say he should have been.”

Quirrel spins away, and takes a few steps towards the door before stopping. They can see he is trembling, and watch for a moment to make sure he isn’t going to finish leaving.

When he stays put, they erase the slate and turn to face Lemm. They hadn’t been watching him closely, but were aware that he had calmed down some. Ghost isn’t sure whether it is because he believes what they’ve been saying, or simply because it had given him a little time. They meet his eyes for a moment, then go back to writing.

“I know you don’t believe him, that you don’t believe me. But if you did, can you begin to imagine how he would feel, coming back?”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Lemm snaps, and Quirrel flinches at his tone but doesn’t turn to see what Ghost has written.

Ghost glares at him for a moment before continuing to write. “When he left, Hallownest was ill, but vibrant and alive. Full of his friends and family, his whole life. And now it is this.”

“That isn’t my doing, I didn’t—” and he stops when Ghost threatens his shelving again.

“He is a scholar of bugs and their lives, their history, their beliefs. \- - - He would normally understand and value the work you do, but he is in pain.” Ghost glares at Lemm, and this time he just glares back when he finishes reading. They continue, “I am to blame for not making it clear what you do before bringing him here. \- - - I didn’t realize what he would think, how he would interpret your shop.”

Lemm snorts and shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything, so Ghost continues.

“Digging in and not clarifying the situation was an unknown cruelty, and one I didn’t immediately recognize either. \- - - You don’t strike me as cruel, just grouchy and antisocial. \- - - All I ask is that you talk about the relics to him as you have to me: treasures of information that you respect, not things to be sold.”

They put the slate away when Lemm finishes reading; they can tell he’s not simply rejecting what they said, but can’t read him beyond that.

Ghost barely hears Quirrel’s breath hitch in a near-silent sob and looks over. He is still facing the door. He shakes his head, inhales sharply, and says, “I’m going to wait in the hallway until you are done.”

He has started to open the door before Lemm says, “Hold on.”

Quirrel doesn’t stop until he is most of the way through. Ghost sees Quirrel’s hands clench into fists for a moment, then he turns slightly and rests his hand on the doorjamb and stares at it rather than Lemm or Ghost. He doesn’t say anything.

Lemm hesitates, then says, “The little shit is right.”

Quirrel flinches and goes rigid, but doesn’t otherwise move.

“I am an asshole,” Lemm continues. “But not deliberately cruel. I don’t believe you, but that doesn’t make me right.”

Stepping out from behind the counter, he walks to one of the shelves that puts him partially into Quirrel’s line of sight and touches one or two of the relics. “Nothing here is for sale. I purchase certain select items from wanderers or adventurers in order to study them. I document my findings and notes in a way that I hope is understandable and won’t degrade, but labor under no delusions that anyone will ever give a shit but me.”

He turns to face Quirrel. “If I _am_ wrong…” Lemm trails off.

Quirrel still hasn’t moved, either to finish leaving or look up.

“Hmph. Conditional apologies are stagshit; it doesn’t matter if I am wrong. I apologize for my words, they were needlessly cruel,” Lemm says and then turns around to retreat behind his counter before anyone reacts.

Glaring at Ghost again, Lemm grumbles, “That’s it for this year. No more damn apologies, now get your damp self over here and show me what you found.”

Ghost looks over to Quirrel, who is still standing like a statue in the door.

Eventually he looks up and away, down the hallway. Letting go of the doorjamb, his hand falls to his side. He sighs and then murmurs, “I’m _tired_ , Ghost. I’m old, I’m worn out, my mind is broken, and I can’t cope with this at the moment. I’ll be waiting by the elevator.”

He hesitates a moment, and then disappears into the hallway.

Ghost sags and turns back to walk over to Lemm at his counter.

Lemm looks contrite, and their transaction is subdued.

Lemm asks, “Your name is Ghost?” After they nod, he mutters, “There’s a reason I’m here instead of somewhere more populated.” He pushes over the Geo, then wraps up the King’s Idol and seals they had sold him. “I don’t…” Lemm shakes his head as he trails off.

As Ghost walks away from the counter he says, “If he—” and stops as Quirrel opens the door.

Quirrel looks at Ghost for a few moments, then steps inside and looks up at Lemm. “I accept your apology,” he says quietly.

When Lemm stares at him without saying anything, Quirrel sighs and continues, “Ghost made several valid points. What you are doing is no different from any other archeological research study, several of which I have read and enjoyed learning from.” He looks over at one of the shelves, then back at Lemm. “Perhaps next time we can talk about history; there are a few relics here I believe are older, that I don’t recognize as readily. I would be interested in learning what you have discovered.”

Lemm continues to stare, then suddenly blurts out, “I’m not good at people.”

Quirrel gives him a small smile and says softly, “I hadn’t noticed.”

Lemm glares. “Shit like that doesn’t help.”

“Ahhh, I see,” Quirrel says. “Forgive me. I did notice your lack of finesse. In the future, would you prefer for me to explicitly state when I am getting upset?”

Taken aback Lemm says, “Yes, that would help.”

“I’ll try my best. Be well,” Quirrel says as Ghost takes his hand.

Looking a bit lost, Lemm says, “You too.”

* * *

Ghost continues to hold Quirrel’s hand as they ride down the elevator, and then as they walk through the city streets. Reaching the less built-up areas as they work towards the Nailsmith’s forge, Ghost tugs on Quirrel’s hand in a relatively sheltered area.

When he stops, they sign, “I think time to stop. Need sleep, need hug. I not know you remember, you know—” and Ghost gestures in the general direction of the Nailsmith. “You not need migraine too. Wait, go tomorrow. Maybe I go, you stay. Think, talk, agree later. Ok?”

Glancing towards where the Nailsmith would be, Quirrel nods, so they choose one of the low apartments to break into to rest and sleep.

* * *

This home has a broad, flat bed with a fairly firm pad that is in decent shape, and after clearing all of the bedding and pillows Ghost thinks they should be able to sleep on it next to Quirrel without issue. It is far earlier than they had planned on stopping, so Ghost is updating their map with random details, which doesn’t take long.

Quirrel is laying on his back in the bed with his arms crossed over his mask.

Ghost puts away the map and then crawls up to join him; he doesn’t move. Wondering if he’s asleep already, they move over to see if they can see his face without touching him. He inhales a juddering breath at about the same time they see he is crying again.

Guessing he doesn’t want to talk based on the fact that he is both covering his eyes and didn’t say anything when they clambered up, they settle back and try and figure out if he wants to be left completely alone. It would be easiest if they could just ask, but he’s blocking their communication path. After sitting there for a couple of minutes without any response from him, they decide that’s their answer and climb off of the bed and head into the main living area.

They wish they knew whether or not to forcefully intrude, whether he needs to be left alone or needs them to stay despite _wanting_ to be left alone. He’d forced himself into their last fit of self-isolation, after the last panic attack. How did he know that’s what he’d needed to do?

Ghost turns and walks back to stand in the doorway. Was it as simple as feeling like utter shit when walking away? If that’s the measure, then they know the answer. But what if that isn’t it?

Hesitating, they watch Quirrel. They can see him trembling, his breath occasionally hitching with a sob. Perhaps they are overthinking it. Maybe this is one of those ‘better to ask forgiveness than permission’ situations.

Walking back over to the bed, Quirrel turns away from them as they climb back up. They stop once they are on the bed, sitting on the edge. That wasn’t promising.

They look back at the door, contemplate leaving again.

Nope, still feels like an utterly shitty thing to do. They clamber back across the bed and sit next to Quirrel’s back. They place their hand on his side, and he flinches and pulls further away with a small sob.

Sitting back, they put their hand in their lap and try to think. There is no need to look at the door, leaving still feels very much like the wrong thing to do.

They could try laying against him instead. If nothing else, at some point he’ll get cold. If he still refuses to move or acknowledge them at that point, they can decide they fucked up and chose the wrong thing to do.

Feeling mildly ridiculous at the juxtaposition of their sizes when laying this way, Ghost lays down and scoots over to press themself against his back, reaching up with one arm to rub softly.

Quirrel pulls away again, but not quite enough to break contact this time. He curls up a little more.

It’s possible he is running out of bed, and they are completely willing to abuse that. Ghost scoots over again, plastering themself against his back and resuming the gentle back rub.

He shudders, inhaling as if to speak but doesn’t, letting the breath out with a sigh. After a few moments, he starts again and asks in a broken whisper, “If I asked you to leave me alone for a while, would you?”

Ghost thinks about it as they continue to rub his back. They sigh, then pat his back once.

“Please, I need… I want…” He makes a small hiccup of a sob, tries again. “I can’t, I just want to be…” and he shudders, his voice breaking again.

They sure as fuck aren’t leaving if he doesn’t actually get the words out, dammit. They are perfectly willing to exploit loopholes.

He stops trying to talk, resumes just laying there and crying.

It’s probably because his carapace is thicker than his front, but it takes longer for him to start randomly shivering from the contact. Admitting defeat with a sigh, they stop rubbing his back. They tilt their head so they can give him a kiss, then roll away and sit up. They still feel shitty about it, but now they feel shitty about themself too.

They scramble out of the bed and leave the room. They stop in the living room briefly, but decide they need to go outside for a little while. Opening the outside door, they maybe hear a noise from the bedroom but don’t stop to confirm. They need to go hit something or kill something, and Quirrel doesn’t need to know he made them feel shitty. They just need to get it out.

Vengeflies dot the area, as well as an occasional sentry. Ghost gets to work.

* * *

Ghost isn’t sure exactly how far they are from the little apartment, but they have figured out that random slaughter about the cityscape isn’t making them feel any better. Sighing, they stow their nail on their back and just stand in the rain, miserable.

They can’t even get cold and miserable, just soaked.

Turning to face in the direction of the Nailsmith’s forge, they wonder if they should just go get their nail taken care of. They had judged it to be two or three hours from the apartment where they had stopped.

Walking over to the edge of one of the canals, they sit and dangle their feet. They’ve been gone for a bit over an hour now, but have been working in a circle of sorts around the apartment. They aren’t sure exactly how far away they are from it at the moment — they had originally tried to stay in sight of it, but know that they stopped paying enough attention about fifteen minutes ago.

If they take off, it’ll be four or six hours before they get back to the apartment, not including the time it takes to reforge their nail, on top of the hour or so they’ve already been gone. They might be feeling shitty and not _want_ to go back first, but recognize it would be nigh-unforgivable if they simply took off without going back and leaving a note.

Sighing, they stare into the running water, wondering where it goes. Somewhere between the Blue Lake and here it seems to have lost the glow, and they wonder why. Looking up, they stare into the rain, feeling it fall into their eyes; feeling it disappear.

Another thing to wonder about, they suppose. It doesn’t go into their storage; they had been mildly curious once and tried, and they can’t access their storage through their eyeholes. They really haven’t tried to figure out where it does go though.

Ghost looks back down into the canal. Jumping in and seeing where it carries them is likely an even worse idea than taking off for the Nailsmith’s, since they have absolutely no idea where it would take them nor how long it would take to get back from there. Worse, because Quirrel could at least _guess_ where they had gone if they took off for the Nailsmith; this would be random.

Watching the water, they settle into a partial trance as the rain patters around them and the water flows on by.

* * *

Ghost startles awake when something brushes their foot, and they almost topple forward into the canal when they try and look for it.

Someone has their lower leg against their foot.

Confused, they look up and find a very damp Quirrel sitting beside them. He’s watching them, unreadable. They look away, out across the little park, and watch the rain.

The silence drags on for a while, but eventually Quirrel quietly asks, “Did you make it to the Nailsmith?”

Surprised, they turn and look at him. How long were they asleep?

He isn’t looking directly at them, but they shake their head firmly. He doesn’t respond, and they don’t know whether it’s because he didn’t see their answer or if he is that… angry? They can’t read him, beyond knowing he’s unhappy.

Not knowing what to do, they go back to staring out at the park, at the rain. They’d tried pushing and it hadn’t worked. They hadn’t meant to storm out in a huff, although it seems like that’s what they’ve done, at least from his perspective. However, if he won’t look at them, they are effectively silenced.

There is another long silence before they hear Quirrel shift.

“I didn’t see you respond,” he murmurs.

They tense up as anger sparks through their chest; it’s his own damn fault he didn’t see it. They force themself to take a calming breath and then turn to face him more fully.

He’s at least looking at them now, even if he isn’t meeting their eyes. He’s tensed up as well.

“I told you no. I not go,” they sign.

Ghost shakes their head and turns back to face the park, goes back to watching the rain.

Quirrel inhales harshly, then pauses before quietly asking, “You’re telling me that you have been sitting here, _sleeping_ here the whole time?”

They still don’t know how long that is, but they shrug and then nod. They don’t check to see if he’s watching first.

“Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone?”

They shake their head.

They hear him shift again but don’t look over.

He sighs. “I suppose I don’t know either. I fell asleep for a while, but I don’t think I slept for longer than an hour or two.” He pauses, then says, “It’s been at least six hours.”

Ghost sags. It’s almost reasonable for them to have gone and come back; close enough to not matter. To have walked out and been gone for six hours with no explanation or note, when Quirrel was that upset and had just pushed them away like that, is petty and mean. It hadn’t been _intentional_ , but Quirrel doesn’t know that. Shuddering, they draw their legs up and cross their arms over their knees, dropping their face onto their arms.

They sit in silence for a few more minutes. Finally, Ghost lifts their head and turns, dangling one leg back over the edge of the canal and folding the other cross-wise so they can sit facing Quirrel. He turns some at their movement, but isn’t looking at them. They sigh, and he glances at their face for a moment before looking down again. At least he is facing the right way and should be able to see them talk.

“I sorry. I not know I go sleep. I not try to go big time, not want to go big time. I not know I take big time, need give you write to tell you I go. I sorry.” Ghost pauses, thinking. Quirrel hasn’t moved, but seems to be listening. “I upset, I not know help you. I need to go out, need to think, need—” and they stumble again. “I try to hug you, want to help you. Hug not help, touch hurt you. Hug upset you more, you not want. I sorry I not listen to you when you tell me no.”

Quirrel suddenly looks away. Ghost waits a moment, but he doesn’t look back. They face back towards the park and wonder if he realizes how much it hurts when he does that. There isn’t an equivalent action to compare it to, that he has the ability to silence them completely and totally by simply looking away. They know bugs do it in painful conversations, when it hurts too much to look at someone when they are talking to them. But they can’t keep talking if he looks away. They have zero ability to force him to hear them.

Ghost stands up and turns to walk back to the apartment.

They hear Quirrel move and then say, “Ghost? Where are you going?”

Ghost keeps walking, and Quirrel says, “I don’t… Ghost, _stop!_ ”

They stop, but don’t turn to face him. This may not be the appropriate time to try and make this point, but he normally does a good job of making sure he doesn’t turn away. Until they start fighting, or arguing, or having difficult conversations. Which probably means that he has excellent sub-conscious habits but needs to have conscious ones as well.

“Where are you going?” He sounds exasperated.

Without turning around, they sign, “I go back, try talk later.”

“What… I can’t tell what you are saying if you don’t face me!” His anger is leaking through; pushing it further is risky.

Spinning around to face him, Ghost puts one of the signs they learned from Ogrim to appropriate use.

“No shit.”

Quirrel sits up and snaps out, “I don’t think sniping at _me_ for something _you_ did is—” before going silent, staring at them.

They cross their arms and wait.

He starts to turn away and stops; starts to cover his eyes and then groans. He slumps, and starts to look away yet again, stops and wraps his arms around himself.

Not wanting to antagonize — just make their point — they uncross their arms and do their damnedest to stay relaxed and not glare, simply watch.

“Point taken,” he says softly. He watches them for a moment before continuing, “I thought I knew better, did better.”

Ghost wobbles their hand, then pulls out the slate. “You do a very good job until we argue or you get upset or just don’t want to hear what I have to say.”

Quirrel flinches, clenching his fists and looking down before snapping his eyes back up. “I would try and argue in my defense, but the evidence is damning.”

Point made, Ghost walks back over to stand in front of him, just out of reach.

“I’m sorry I didn’t leave a note. I hadn’t intended to go far, to be away for long. I just needed to vent energy. \- - - I ran around killing vengeflies for about an hour, and then sat down here to meditate when that wasn’t working. \- - - The next thing I was aware of was when you tapped my foot.”

Quirrel is quiet. He isn’t meeting their eyes, but hasn’t looked away. He finally says, “I think I may have preferred the blinding fury to the thought that — barely a block away from where you started — you fell so solidly asleep while meditating that you didn’t hear me approach or say your name.”

Ghost had been starting to wonder if the complete and utter stillness that they had found so unreadable was how Quirrel got when he was furious. Or at least how he got when he wanted to be ‘reasonable’ and either give someone enough rope to hang themself or keep himself from fucking up irredeemably.

They start writing again. “I won’t tell you the thought of going to the Nailsmith didn’t cross my mind.”

Quirrel starts to say something but stops when they turn the slate to erase and continue. “I stood here and tried to figure out how long the trip would take. \- - - I sat down here when I decided I was too upset to go back to leave a note. \- - - I would never leave to go that far without letting you know. \- - - If I ever disappear without warning, it will not be voluntary.”

Quirrel flinches and starts to look away, stops himself and stares at their feet instead.

“I apologize for not leaving when you asked. I shouldn’t have cornered you or kept trying to touch when you moved away.” He shakes his head, but they go back to writing. “I thought maybe it was like when you didn’t let me go after my panic attack, that even if you didn’t want it, it might help. \- - - But I was wrong, or I don’t know enough to push the right way, and I hurt you instead. I’m sorry.”

Quirrel is shaking his head again, but doesn’t seem to know what to say, so they tackle their next apology.

“I’m sorry I didn’t explain what Lemm does, why he buys things. \- - - I thought you knew what I would be going there to sell, but I didn’t consider how it would seem to you. \- - - I was so distracted trying to figure out how to explain his personality that I gave up before I told you what he does.”

He scoffs quietly, and when they pause, he murmurs, “I can see how it would be daunting.”

Ghost looks down at the slate. It is soaked, and they are surprised any of the last few exchanges have been legible. They’ve been rinsing it off more than erasing it. They have also said most of what they want to for now; they fucked up, they’ve done their best to apologize, so they put the slate away.

He watches them for a few moments before looking back out at the park with its various bridges and sheltered areas.

Facing them again, he meets their eyes briefly before dropping his gaze to their hands. It makes them want to fidget, but they have to admit he isn’t trying to not hear them.

“When I woke up and you weren’t back, I was upset,” he says quietly. “But I knew I had hurt you, and guessed that you wanted to blow off steam.”

Quirrel pauses and looks up at their face again. He’s back to unreadable. “I don’t…” He sighs. “You weren’t _wrong_ in your belief that I needed an enforced hug,” he says. “It was… but you got up and _left_ right as I was figuring out I didn’t want you to,” he whispers.

“I tried to call you back, but you were already out the door. I don’t… why did you stop holding me?”

Ghost is staring at him. Either they completely misinterpreted his shivers, or he had been out of it enough to not register them. They realize they don’t know any signs for ‘cold’ or ‘shiver,’ so they dig the slate back out.

“You had started to shiver, and were still trying to curl away.”

He starts shaking his head as he reads, and looks up at them when he finishes. “I don’t remember that,” he whispers.

They give him a small shrug and write, “It took longer than normal, likely because of your shell, but we’d been laying there for over fifteen minutes. \- - - I hadn’t put a blanket between us after you scooted away from the first one. \- - - I don’t think I misinterpreted your shivering; it was in addition to your shudders from crying.”

He just stares at the slate blankly when he finishes. “If it had been fifteen minutes, I know you’re right,” he murmurs, and then sags.

“If you were waiting for me to get all the words out to ask you to leave before actually leaving, you were making the right choice,” he says quietly.

He shivers and looks up at them. “You need to know that. You weren’t hurting me, you _weren’t_.”

Quirrel goes back to talking to their hands.

“I waited for you to come back,” he murmurs. When they don’t move to say anything, he looks down at his hands. He shivers again and balls them up tightly enough Ghost worries he’ll crack his own chitin. “When you hadn’t come back after a couple of hours, I got worried. I knew I couldn’t go very far to search, that it would be better for me to wait, but I did walk around some, calling for you. You didn’t respond, and I couldn’t think of where you might have gone, except to the Nailsmith.”

He goes rigid for a moment, then obviously forces himself to relax. He takes a deep breath and uncurls his fists as he exhales, looking up to meet their eyes. It’s a little frightening, how completely he erases the anger and is once again unreadable. Ghost shivers.

“I was furious. _Am_ furious. I went back to the apartment and waited for another couple of hours before deciding I would head towards the forge and meet you on the way back. I knew there had been enough time for you to have gotten there and have the work done and be most of the way back, probably should already have been back.” He watches them expressionlessly before going on. “I’m not sure what impulse had me circle the apartment a couple of times again first. I saw you sitting here on the second circuit.” He pauses again, watching. He finally turns and points down the street. “The apartment door is eight units down the street, just pass the end of the block,” he says quietly. “I must have looked this way dozens of times. I never saw you here.”

Ghost turns to look back down the street where he pointed. They can understand why he is upset, but feel anger burning at the semi-accusation he is making.

Quirrel continues while they look. “I was livid when I saw you just sitting here.” They turn to face him again. “I believed you had gone and come back, but then…” He shakes his head, makes a small gesture. “But then chose to sit down here instead of… instead of letting me know you were safe. You didn’t react when I said your name.” Another moment while he just watches them. “I almost walked away before recognizing the way you were sitting, that you were sleeping.”

His fists clench briefly before he relaxes them again; his posture never shifts.

“The fact that you were sleeping just made me angrier. I stood here for ten minutes, trying to calm down, trying to think of something that made sense, why you would be sleeping here and not…” He tenses up again, his hands clenching back into fists, and turns away sharply. Taking a deep breath, forcing himself to relax again, and looks back at them, although he doesn’t meet their eyes.

Ghost waits to see if he’s going to say more, and turns to look back down the street when he remains silent. The park has a number of low bushes and random scattered shelters. There are a couple of bushes between here and the apartment, but not much else. If he was looking for them, he was probably expecting them to be up and walking, not being an inert lump. The bigger problem is that he is livid. They don’t know if there is anything they can say that will get through his anger if he thinks they aren’t being truthful.

It tears at them, that he would think that. But they’ve been that angry before, and know what propels righteous fury — namely the absolute belief that what you have decided is true, and damn any facts that refute that. Coming down from that, backing away without tearing everything apart is terribly hard. They wonder what has happened in his past that taught him this fierce control.

They face him again. He’s gone back to sitting there, absolutely still, hands clasped gently. Watching them. Unreadable.

Going to the Nailsmith to have their nail forged will prove they haven’t done so already.

Ghost isn’t that fucking patient.

They shake their head and sign, “I not lie, I tell you truth.”

Quirrel doesn’t react, but they didn’t expect him to. He’s too wrapped up in his head.

Ghost steps up closer and draws their nail, laying it on the ground in front of him. He flinched when they pulled it out, but they let it go. They pull out their bag of Geo and set it beside the nail, and then the two pieces of pale ore. He’s staring at the collection, and they can see he’s tensed up again although he’s fighting it.

They wait to see if he says anything, does anything, but he stays silent and unmoving as he stares.

When they lay the Dream Nail in front of him, he jerks back as if they hit him. They had hoped the little pile would break his fixation. They know that by setting out the Dream Nail they are no longer obfuscating the fact that he is ultimately accusing them of lying.

They believe he has every right to be angry; running off and falling asleep without letting him know that they _weren’t_ leaving the area is just as wrong as taking off to the Nailsmith would have been. The only difference is the intent behind the actions. That’s a fight they are willing to have (and rightfully lose).

Pulling out the slate they write, “If we are going to fight, let’s have the right argument. You have every right to be furious; be furious about the right thing.”

He’s still staring at the Dream Nail as if it is going to bite him. Sighing, they kick at a puddle and splash it in his general direction. Startled, he looks up at them before focusing on the slate to read it.

Quirrel stiffens up as he reads, then meets their eyes in a glare. “Thank you for the permission, it is appreciated.”

Stunned, they stare back.

“Are you going to tell me what the ‘right thing’ to be angry about is as well?” he snaps.

Unsure of what they have just tripped over, they shake their head.

“How gracious.” He stands up and glances at the pile of items they had laid out. “I’m going to take a walk.”

Quirrel strides off.

Ghost stands in the rain, flabbergasted, watching Quirrel as he disappears into the park.

When he is out of sight, Ghost puts away the slate and gathers up their things. They have no idea where he expects them to wait, so they stay where they are for about five minutes before deciding to walk over to one of the smaller shelters.

Five minutes after that, they decide to walk back over to the bridge spanning the canal near where they had originally been sitting. It has wrought steel sides, intricate details of leaves and trees that they are sure is beautiful. They don’t look at it, instead choosing a spot where they can lean their head against the metalwork without it blocking their eyes. Sighing, they go back to watching the water flow through the canal as the rain patters down around them.

Something about watching the water in the canal is a little too mesmerizing, but this time they catch themself fading out, and stand back up. They look around, but Quirrel isn’t in sight. They tilt their head back and look up, letting the rain fall into their eyes and disappear again. Would wherever the rain goes fill up? How long would it take? They seem to be falling asleep whenever they stare at the canal, could they fall asleep staring at the sky, filling up with rain?

Deciding they really don’t have anything better to do, hoping the oddity of the experiment is enough to keep them distracted from thinking _or_ sleeping, they wrap their hand around the metalwork and tilt their head back to the sky.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Survivor guilt is a real and horrific thing. There is no way in hell I can do it justice, having neither experienced it nor personally known someone who has. The best I can do is pull on my deeply personal experiences with major depression and extrapolate. If I need to change something, please let me know.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I know it is often used to mean ‘any surface that would be skin in a human’ in fanfic, and ‘the back of the bug’ less frequently, but [carapace](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carapace) actually only refers to a back protective shell, and generally only in crustaceans (the subphylum into which our favorite pillbug is classified), arachnids, and “certain vertebrates such as turtles and tortises.”
> 
> But we all know what we mean when it is used, and so long as we aren’t writing scientific papers, who gives a fuck beyond that (barring me and my random notes, I suppose). I’m pretty sure _I_ have used it that way elsewhere in this fic!
> 
> The only reason I even mentioned it is because Quirrel would have a hell of a time seeing his carapace.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Quirrel in a cape: “ _I’m Batbug_.”  
>   
> 


	11. Well I Refuse to Let You Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirrel and Ghost have a fight, Ghost fucks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to [Grumpy_Old_Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpy_Old_Snake/pseuds/Grumpy_Old_Snake) for editing and beta reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
> This chapter has a very vague possibility of needing _Emetophobia Warning_ if you squint hard.  
>   
> 

#### Ghost

* * *

Odd. Filling up with rain feels exceptionally odd.

It is definitely going somewhere, and that somewhere is filling up. They have spent the last five minutes trying to decide if they can tell how full this mystical place is becoming.

Earlier, they had briefly worried that it might somehow be connected to their regular storage and panicked when they pulled out the dripping-wet slate before remembering they had put it _away_ dripping wet. Their map had been dry when they pulled it out, less so when they had stuffed it back with a sigh.

Hearing footsteps, they straighten up and turn towards the sound and their head… sloshes. They grab it with their hands, but it doesn’t help because the sloshing is somewhere _inside_.

Disconcerted, they stare at Quirrel as they hold their head. The experiment was remarkably distracting, however now they need to _not_ be distracted, and don’t know how to solve their problem.

They let go of their head since it isn’t helping, and it no doubt makes it look like they are having a problem. Which, to be fair, they _are_ , but sorting out the problems with Quirrel are far more important.

He’s still unreadable, although he crosses his arms after a moment. They have no idea where to start and are tired of running into traps, so they just watch him back, something inside gently sloshing. Gods, that’s distracting.

Eventually he looks up into the rain and then back down at them.

“You’ve been standing there looking up into the rain for at least thirty minutes,” he says quietly.

Technically it’s been over an hour, but they keep that to themself.

If they nod, will it start the sloshing back up?

They nod, and slosh.

They flinch, but manage not to grab their head this time.

“Why didn’t you go back to the apartment? There was no need to stay here,” he says.

Oh yes, because disappearing after sending him into a towering rage because they had disappeared would be the _best_ course of action. There wasn’t even the _option_ of a note here; paper would wash away, and the slate would wash off.

“You not tell me ok. You left, not tell, I unsure, I not go.”

“You don’t need my permission to go—”

Ghost feels their anger come boiling up, and they whirl around and slam their fist into the concrete pillar supporting the metalwork. They are shocked when they see water slosh in front of their eyes, and have to grab the metalwork to stay upright and not slosh on around.

They distractedly wonder if this counts as drowning their anger. Slightly dizzy, they have to admit it’s effective.

They sigh, and carefully turn back to face Quirrel. He’s still standing there, looking calm. They don’t know what’s up. They know he’s livid, they know that at least part of it is because of what they did, and accept that his anger is justified. But there seems to be far more than that going on, and they don’t know what it is.

Standing there, watching Quirrel not react, they feel a sense of familiarity. Someone told them, once, that rage was unconfronted grief. It was hundreds of years ago at this point, and so the fact that they think they heard it in Quirrel’s voice is jarring but unlikely.

The sentiment is also a gross oversimplification, but holds a germ of truth at its core.

How much is it piling up, his grief?

With every returning memory must come the eventual knowledge that where it came from is gone.

How much easier is it to be angry, than to feel subsumed?

Buried grief in a buried kingdom, covered over and forgotten until it boils out in fury.

Quirrel’s grief isn’t something they can fix. He needs someone to love him who isn’t damned to leave him. He probably needs someone who has a fucking clue how to handle his ‘broken mind.’

Unfortunately for him, he gets them. The person who filled their head with rainwater so they wouldn’t have to think.

And godsdammit, they haven’t left yet. There is also no fucking way they are going to leave like this. He’s going to have to kill them to drive them off.

Pity that won’t work either.

They walk over to Quirrel — carefully, to avoid sloshing — and stand in front of him, staring up. More rain goes to wherever it is going that is getting full. Idly, they wonder if he can see how full they are. It probably isn’t water that he thinks they are full of.

A small amount of rainwater later, they sign, “I sorry. I tell you I sorry now, I tell you I sorry later. I tell you I sorry here, I tell you I sorry different here. I write to you I sorry. I tell you I sorry, I more sorry, I big sorry.”

They pause a moment, trying to sort out what they want to say. Quirrel is watching them, unmoving.

“You not listen. You not want. You not want to listen to me tell you sorry, you want to fight.”

Quirrel whirls around and starts to walk off, so they dash forward and semi-gently smack the back of his carapace with the flat of their nail before springing back.

He practically growls when he whips back around.

Finally.

“First I not understand why you not want me to tell you I sorry. I not understand why you think I lie when I tell you I sleep—”

“I _never_ said that,” he hisses.

“I not say you **tell** me! I say you **think** my sleep lie! I show you different, you go! You not want truth, you want bad upset more!”

“And why in _any_ gods’ name would I want to be _angry_ more than I would want to know the _truth?_ ” he snarls.

“When you upset you not need see what make you cry.”

He starts to turn away again, but stops when they reach for their nail. He’s shaking.

“When you think lie truth, you think bad upset good, bad upset right. When I tell you I sleep, not go, I give you a different bad upset. I give you a small scared. I tell you I sorry, I tell you I sleep, I take first upset and give you different upset, give you a small scared. You not want.” They pause to think a moment. “First upset easy upset. First upset I not right, easy to see I not right. Easy to see I asshole. Easy to see I hurt you, worry you. You not need to think, not need to understand. Easy.”

“ _Easy_ ,” he spits out. “Being angry because you… because I believed you took off without me, without letting me know you were going, that’s _easy?_ Being worried that you would get stuck, or hurt because you were angry and not paying attention? That’s _easy?_ ” He’s randomly jabbing his finger at them when he yells ‘you’. “Being angry because you took off without saying _anything_ , without leaving a _note_ , without letting me know _where_ you went or when you’d be back or _if_ you’d be—”

Quirrel spins around again, hands clenched. He doesn’t try and leave, so they don’t try and swat him for turning away.

They pull out the slate and start writing. “Easy because it’s simple. If I deliberately took off, I can’t claim I didn’t know what I was doing.”

They know he can hear they’ve finished writing, so they tilt the slate to protect their words from the rain, and wait for him to turn around.

He shudders hard, but turns back. He didn’t manage to make himself unreadable this time; he’s slightly hunched, and has crossed his arms again. After a moment, he gives them a tiny nod.

Ghost writes, “It would mean I did it with intent to hurt. You spent hours believing I left here angry and hurt, wanting to hurt you back.”

Quirrel flinches, moves to turn away but stops.

Ghost watches him for a few moments before continuing. “Anger doesn’t just switch off. Being that angry for that long leaves energy built up. \- - - I usually end up crying because I can’t scream and shout.”

They hear him whimper, and he suddenly inhales and turns to look off over their head. They wait a moment, but he doesn’t move further. He’ll be able to tell when they are done writing again, so they continue.

“You have said so many times that you are tired of crying, you don’t want to cry again, you feel like all you do is cry.” He does look down, hiccups as he finishes reading, and goes back to staring off over their head. “So yes, I think holding onto the rage is easier than dealing with the undirected emotional distress left behind. \- - - Hundreds of years ago, someone with a voice hauntingly similar to yours told me ‘rage is just unconfronted grief.’ \- - - As with many sayings, it has many flaws but holds a deep truth.”

When they look up to show him the slate the last time, he isn’t looking off over their head and meets their eyes. He looks shaken, but reads their words when they turn the slate around. His arms are wrapped tightly around his middle.

“Mom would say that from time to time,” he whispers. “It doesn’t mean… doesn’t mean I… we… it’s a common enough saying.”

He looks away again, over the bridge where they had been standing. He’s shivering, which likely means he’s lost the burning rage that was keeping him warm.

Putting the slate away again, they step forward and look up, letting in more rain, feeling things slosh around again. He hesitates but looks down, and they hold their hand out.

He stares at it for a long time. Normally they’d figure they could stand like this forever, but they are beginning to wonder if they will start overflowing at some point.

When he finally takes it, they squeeze gently.

“You forgot a detail, when you said the rage was easier,” he whispers.

They tilt their head, wondering if water will start spilling out.

Quirrel shakes his head and kneels in front of them, touches the side of their face.

“It hurts less,” he chokes out before grabbing them with a sob. “Oh gods, Ghost…” He buries his face into the side of their head. “It hurts so much,” he whispers.

They wrap their arms around his neck and cling hard, knowing they have to stop soon since he’s already cold.

He shudders and pulls them in tighter as they try and step away, then stands up and starts striding towards the apartment, sobbing.

They feel mildly ill as everything starts sloshing rapidly, and they are treated to the very odd view of water spilling out of their eyeholes.

Quirrel stops suddenly, breath heaving. The water rocks back and forth, and a little more spills out.

“Ghost?” he asks, his voice breaking as he half sobs.

Dizzy, they decide they don’t want to nod, and so they pat his shoulder once.

“Did you just get sick?” He sounds very confused, a little worried, and he hiccups.

While that is one possibly valid interpretation, they don’t think it truly captures the problem they are having, so they pat his shoulder twice.

He shivers deeply, which impels him to start moving again. Once again, the rocking motion of his pace sets up the sloshing, so they tilt their head to look up and keep things from sloshing out, but as they reach the front steps another wave spills out of their eyes down his back.

Kneeling, he grabs them and sets them down in front of him, generating another slosh and some more water spills out. He stares at them in shock.

Maybe if he tips them upside down? They have decided they don’t like being full of water.

“You me up down? Please? I not happy, not well. Please you up down me?”

Quirrel continues to stare until he is wracked by a deep shiver, which seems to shock him out of his… shock.

“I… you want me to flip you upside down?!” he asks.

They start to nod, then decide against it and sign, “Yes, please!”

“…how long did you stand there, collecting rain?”

Embarrased, they shrug. When he glares at them, they hold up one finger.

“An hour!?” he exclaims.

Ghost shrugs again, then wobbles their hand.

“I was gone for an hour and a half! You stood there staring up at the rain the whole damn time?!”

Contrite, they sign, “I not think good thought.”

He stares for another moment, then mutters, “‘I not think good thought,’ you say.” He grips them around their waist and says, “No, you damn well didn’t have a good idea Ghost!” before unceremoniously picking them up and flipping them over, sighing as the water pours out.

* * *

Ghost still feels odd and vaguely dizzy. They aren’t sure whether or not this is concerning, although it is certainly distracting. The two of them are currently engaging in an awkward silence, so the distraction is nice; they just wish it wasn’t as uncomfortable as the silence.

They decide that Quirrel is apparently not going to be the first one to break the awkward, so they walk over to the fireplace and start to pull out some of the wood and other burnable materials they brought along. Quirrel is cold, and there is still enough tension remaining that needs dealt with somehow. They don’t know _how_ , but if they can get Quirrel at least _engaged_ it will be an improvement.

Staring at the jumble of wood in the fireplace with absolutely no clue what to do next offers one potential avenue of engagement. They know they haven’t done it right, but don’t know how to fix it. Or start it. They don’t even have the tools to start it — Quirrel carries those in his backpack.

Hearing Quirrel move, they turn as he kneels beside them and then grab the side of the fireplace as the room spins.

He pauses, then says, “I was going to ask if you needed help with the fire, but I think I should ask if you are feeling well.”

They watch him for a moment, and when he stops tilting back and forth, they let go of the fireplace and wobble their hand. He tenses up, and they shrug before pointing at the fireplace. “I not know. I need help, not know. Please show?”

Quirrel glances at the fireplace before looking back at them.

“Do you know that you are swaying?” he asks quietly.

That might explain why the room keeps moving, and they start to shake their head before deciding that is _not_ a good idea and grab the edge of the fireplace again. It also helps the room stop tilting, so they leave their hand in place. After waiting to see if he starts to show them how to burn things in a controlled and regulated fashion, they use their other hand to point at the fireplace when he doesn’t.

He sighs and then sits down, pulling out the wood they had piled into the fireplace.

“You need to start with the small stuff first,” he says softly. “You don’t have enough of that here at the moment, so you need to pull some out.”

He continues the lesson quietly, showing them each of the categories of materials that go into being able to reliably set up and light a fire, explaining some differences between how he is setting it up here, in a fireplace, vs. how he would set up a campfire. He has them place some of the larger pieces, gaze sharpening when they stumble as they work.

Pulling out the fire-starting materials, he shows them how to use the supplies he has. There are some matches, although not many. There’s a flint and steel kit, which is what they’ve seen him use. He shows them the general motions — sending sparks skittering across the hearth — before handing them the kit.

What was nice and compact in his hands is ridiculously over-sized and unwieldly in theirs, and as they fumble around trying to get a secure grip on the tools it becomes obvious to them that in addition to the swaying, they are having significant coordination issues. They don’t think Quirrel has noticed, because they are doing something new with tools that they are obviously not familiar with and aren’t sized correctly, but they can tell.

Ghost finally gets the flint wedged between their feet and aimed in the general direction of the fire-to-be, and smacks at it with the steel. The rock skates away, and Quirrel stops it with his hand, sliding it back over to them. They try a few more times, before Quirrel suggests that he hold the flint in place. He tells them learning the correct motion for generating a spark and sending it in a useful direction is more important, and knows that they can come up with a smaller flintstone that they will be able to hold.

It takes a number of attempts to generate a spark consistently, and then they manage to catch their cloak on fire. Quirrel grabs them when they scramble back and spin around, trying to get to the smoldering edge.

“No! Stop! First rule is to stay calm! Second rule is to not flap it around, that just makes it burn faster.” He had quickly and efficiently forced them to sit as he spoke, swatting his hand against the small flames and putting them out. “Never run. If you don’t have water right next to you, it is always better to just lay down and smother it with your body, either by rolling or doing what I just did.”

They nod carefully. Between the scrambling and the spinning, they are very dizzy now. They sit for a moment, then pull their cloak around to try and see the burned section. It takes a bit of tugging, as it is further to the side than they can easily get to, but they finally manage to get it barely in view.

Yep, it was on fire. Sighing, they drop their hands and instead try to assess the damage by feel.

“Does it hurt?” Quirrel asks softly.

Distracted, they shake their head, which was a mistake. The room shifts violently, and they rock back and forth, trying not to tip over. They manage, but Quirrel is staring at them again.

“Ghost…” He sighs and looks into the fireplace for a moment, then back at them. “If I ask how you are feeling again, will you tell me or deflect again?” He looks sad, but they don’t know if it is immediate or residual. Watching the room sway slightly, they decide it is probably both.

They also decide they are tired of watching things sway, rock, spin, oscillate, rotate, or otherwise move when they are sitting still and things shouldn’t be moving.

With a sigh they sign, “I not well. I think I want down.” and flop over backwards.

Quirrel gasps and lunges for them, catching their head just before it hits the ground. He starts to pick them up but stops when they wave their hands around. They point to the fireplace; he’s still cold, and while they might not need to warm up it feels nice.

He looks torn, so they sign, “Please? I want too? Please?”

He makes a soft noise of distress, then lets go and leans over to start the fire. It takes him two strikes to get the spark in, another five seconds to make sure the flame starts well, and he watches for another five seconds before dumping some of the larger tinder over it in what is obviously a half-assed rush job and turns away from the fire, letting it fend for itself.

Quirrel reaches for them again, then stops with a sigh and slides over to sit by them instead. When they point at the fire, he sighs again and switches sides, so he is sitting by them but also closer to the fireplace. He watches them, looking utterly wrung out.

Ghost moves to sit back up, but he gently pushes them back down, shaking his head.

“Why, Ghost?” he finally asks. “Surely you knew you were getting… getting full?”

They wobble their hand. Any explanation as to ‘why’ is ultimately going to come back around to ‘because it felt better than feeling shitty because we were arguing because I did a shitty thing’ and they know it needs said, because they had promised him they wouldn’t hide things like that, but they don’t have the signs for it. Writing while lying on their back is pretty much impossible.

“You’re unsure why you did it?”

Unfortunately, no, they know that one. Also unfortunately, they suspect that when they admit _that_ he’ll likely guess part of the reason, but they sign, “No, I know why I—” before waving their hands a little and then pointing into their eyes.

He sags, looking even more exhausted. When they don’t continue, he sighs and leans forward, dropping his face into his hands and then just sitting there.

They reach over to touch his leg, but he’s just out of reach. He looks up when they roll onto their side, and they hesitate before reaching out and lightly touching his shin. He doesn’t pull back, so they gently wrap their fingers around his leg and hold on. Eventually, he drops one of his hands to his leg and wraps it around their hand, shifting their grip to his fingers and then squeezing softly.

“I was _so sure_ I knew what had happened,” he whispers. “I was so _angry_.”

Ghost squeezes his fingers back, rubs their thumb on the side of the finger they are gripping.

“Angry at you for running off, angry at Lemm for being here, angry at you for working with him, angry at everything that has happened.” He shudders. “Angry at myself,” he says quietly, and they flinch in surprise.

He looks at them and squeezes their hand. “Angry at myself for so many things. Most of them I can’t or couldn’t control,” he says sadly. “And so, I was also angry at myself for being helpless.”

He sighs. “After a certain point it doesn’t matter much what someone tells you or shows you. You’ve built up too much momentum, too much rage, the fury blinds you to any truth that might be there. I thought… I thought I was being reasonable, that I was open to learning I was wrong.”

He scoffs. “Apparently whatever subconscious scenario I had didn’t involve you being perfectly reasonable right back at me. Your confusion made me angrier, your truth infuriated me with its lack of decision or intent, and your calm acceptance that you had messed up enraged me.”

Quirrel places his other hand under the one holding theirs before changing his grip around to cup theirs between his, and squeezes tight.

“And then,” he pauses and snorts. “ _Then_ you had the unmitigated gall to calmly and reasonably tell me my fury was perfectly fine; I didn’t have to do anything about it except completely redefine why I was having it.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know whether to consider it depressing or another example of karmic justice, but I told a partner something very similar once. He didn’t take it well.”

He gives them a small smile. “I also didn’t mean it very kindly,” he murmurs. “Which is why, when you told me that, I reacted the way I did.”

He reaches out and then hesitates before oh-so-softly trailing his hand down their horn, coming to rest on the side of their face with his fingers curled around behind their head and his thumb at the base of their horn.

“It didn’t help that you had just utterly destroyed my assumptions with irrefutable proof, and when I still tried to hesitate, forced me to see what I was accusing you of.”

He shifts and turns his hand so his fingers are around their horn instead and he can rub his thumb under their eye.

“I accept your apologies,” he says. He huffs and adds, “At least the ones about the note and Lemm.” He caresses their cheek again. “I refuse to accept the one about the enforced hug,” he says quietly. “You were right, it was what I needed. _I_ knew I needed it, even if I didn’t _want_ to need it.” Another sigh. “I was in no way trapped by anything except myself. If I had stood up and gone to the other bedroom, you wouldn’t have followed.”

They shake their head and immediately regret it as a wave of dizziness hits.

Quirrel shakes his head. “Do you think you can retrieve the pad without passing out, or should I go grab all the blankets?”

Ghost pulls their hand back and starts to push themself upright, then has doubts about it halfway up. They sit there for a moment, then reach over to Quirrel and grab his hand when he holds it out. Pulling themself up, they sway for a few moments before pulling out the slate (sopping wet), some chalk (one a crumbling mess from getting wet, one dry), the pad (mercifully dry), and the map (slightly damp).

Quirrel brushes the disaster that is what remains of the chalk that got wet into the fireplace as Ghost stares at the map. They had originally thought to set it out so it could dry, but putting the map (highly flammable) near the fire (full of flamma) seems ill-advised and they tuck it back away.

He watches them for a moment, then seems to decide they aren’t going to do anything else. He scoots himself so that he is facing the fire again and can reach the pile of wood, grabbing some and adding it to the fireplace before snagging the silk pad and standing up. He refolds it into a larger shape, then looks at the slate. He turns to head down the hall, then stops and turns back.

“I think I would be less worried if you sat down. I don’t want to find you face-first in the fireplace.”

Unthinkingly, Ghost nods and then promptly sits down, rapidly followed by laying down. They are facing the wrong way, but hear Quirrel sigh deeply as his footsteps fade down the hall before returning. He sits back down beside them and uses a small ratty towel to wipe down the slate, then sets it closer to the fire. Pulling the pad into his lap, he spreads it out over his belly and tucks it up against his chest. Leaning over, he gently scoops them up and tucks them into his chest, one hand against the back of their head and the other cradling their body.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You’ve never lied to me; I had no reason to doubt your word.” He presses a kiss against their horn. “I’m sorry I silenced you.” His breath hitches, and he shakes his head. “Unfortunately, I fear I am going to be apologizing for that one again,” he murmurs. “I promise to do my best, but you may need to swat me with your nail again.”

Ghost huffs, presses against him.

“I love you,” he says, kissing their horn a few more times. “And while I am certain it will pain me to hear,” he says before growling softly, “ _why_ did you fill yourself full of rain!?”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I regret making a sorta-joke out of the way I worded _Emetophobia Warning_? Oh hell no. xD

**Author's Note:**

> **FANART!!!**
> 
> OMG, these are wonderful! I am absolutely tickled and it makes me _happy_ which is wonderful because class time requirements are kicking my _ass_ something fierce.
> 
> Unless AO3 eats my code somehow, the thumbnails will take you to said person’s blog where they posted the art so you can see the full-sized versions!
> 
> * * *
> 
> [](https://angiesguilty.tumblr.com/post/644792321423081472/inspired-by-nurgletwh-lovely-fic) Our lovebugs as presented by angiezu!
> 
> * * *
> 
> [](https://buglife.tumblr.com/post/645591552655278080/so-nurgletwh-writes-a-great-fic-series-of-my) Our very tired lovebugs from KeetahSpacecat!


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